The Birthday
Gloria's birthday was on Monday.Gloria's age is advancing at exactly the same rate as every other person on the planet, but as she reaches the, um, "29+" years, it's starting to "weigh" on her.
"It's not I don't have enough clothes," Gloria said, riffling through her closet. "It's just that I don't have anything that I look good in anymore."
"CHEST PAINS!" I yelled. I have learned over the years that when a women asks you any question about her attractiveness, this is the most effective response.
"I've put on weight," she said. This is a common complaint, even though she has been overweight exactly zero days in the thirteen years I've known her.
"You're a bit digital," I said. "When you're a hundred and five pounds, you say you feel thin. A hundred and six, and you're Jabba the Hut."
My new strategy is going to be to pretend to have a top-secret brain implant which goes off every time she talks about weight or appearance. Since it's top secret, I can't give her any details, obviously, and I'll have to shove off immediately.
Eli 6.11 has been schooled in the complex nuances of this kind of conversational exchange. When Gloria, in passing, mentions her looks negatively, he knows to pull out the big compliment:
"Mom, your BODY isn't FAT. The FAT part of you is the HEAD."
I've tried to explain to Gloria quite delicately, that perhaps her perception of her body is not entirely accurate, and clearly, Eli understands this with all the subtlety it requires.
Gloria got her hair cut last week and was complaining that it was too short, and Eli said "Her HAIR looks good, but she's crazy in the BRAIN." Then he hugged Gloria and said, "You don't NEED to look good, Mom--you're already married!"
Spoken like a true gentleman.
By the way, here's a picture of Gloria's birthday cake (and her, with Eli 6.11):
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