Posts Tagged ‘watermelon’
My collective psyche has been thinking a lot about you today.
Science Geek Craig loves how you torture me by pretending to fall asleep when I tell you about the latest amazing developments in cosmology or quantum physics. And together with Woo-Woo Hippy Craig, they both wonder if finding you was some kind of atemporal karmic reward for being the better person that I have become since I’ve known you.
Playful Craig loves how much fun you are to be with, while Sports Craig is somewhat sheepish, but infinitely grateful for the seemingly endless patience you have for letting me go off and chase plastic or swat rubber out of the air.
Teddy Bear Craig loves when you fall asleep with your head on my chest, while Fozzie Bear Craig loves when you laugh at my jokes, but delights ever more when you groan at them, giving me the opportunity to flog them.
Chef Craig loves your complete silence when you really enjoy something I’ve cooked you, and Foodie Craig loves your newfound passion for baking, broiling, and braising.
Romantic Craig loves to dance with you in front of fountains, in parks, and in our living room, while <redacted> Craig loves to <...redacted...> and of course <...redacted...> all while <...redacted...>, it being legal now, because we’re married.
Empathic Craig loves to support you while you de-stress about work or life, while Emphatic Craig loves that you support me –”You tell them, honey.”– while I whargarble about hockey commentators or the makers of the cable box or other trivial matters.
Catboy Craig loves that you love our fur-babies as much as I do, that you surprise and delight Arizona by unexpectedly chasing her, and that you can bring pure, unadulterated joy into Jones’ life just by dancing with him when you get home, or by using him as a cat-bazooka as you storm the living room.
Moviephile Craig loves that we have such similar taste in movies, both good and bad, still feeling awed and proud and lucky that Goonies played a none-too-small part in our meeting each other, not to mention being secretly jealous that you had rediscovered Predator before I had.
Photog Craig loves that you have unlimited patience for me when I stop to take a picture of something random, feels especially lucky at what a willing and absolutely gorgeous model you are, whether all dolled up or just out of bed, and looks forward to the many, many more adventure shots of our feet in exciting and memorable locales that are yet to be taken.
Narrator Craig loves to hear you fall asleep while I read stories to you by the light of Code Red, delights when you drift near the surface ten minutes after I’ve stopped reading to let me know that you think you missed that last part, and absolutely adores that, for some strange reason, you feel a little guilty for falling asleep during a bedtime story.
Eight Year Old Craig loves that he’s found the best friend he never had growing up, while Eighty Year Old Craig looks forward to the next several decades of growing old together, but never growing up.
Unanimously, we all agree that every day since we’ve met has been better than the last. So every day with you is literally the best day of my life.
With all my heart and soul, I love you more than watermelon.
I remember when you could get both seedless and true watermelon. I remember trying the seedless version. It was but a pale shadow of the vibrantly red, beautifully sweet, and deliciously refreshing true seeded wonder-food.
A true watermelon was pure ambrosia for a child. Similar in colour and property to the high-octane hummingbird food which fuels their unbounded energy, a watermelon served as the perfect pit-stop for young racing machines. Whether participating at the Picnic Grand Prix, the Baseball 500, or the Beach Superspeedway, every nanosecond spent on pit-row eating or drinking meant that you were missing out on everything that was going on.
In this way, watermelon seemed as if it were purpose engineered to suit the needs of youth. Not only would it provide both requirements of life, sugar and liquid, but your last piece could be taken on the go, shaving precious moments off your down-time.
That your hands, face, chest, and right forearm from elbow toward wrist would be smeared with stickiness was inconsequential to a kid. It would be washed off by the next plunge, or covered up by a film of dirt, or perhaps neither. To paraphrase a line from Predator: “Ain’t got time to clean”. It’s not that a conscious decision was made by an elite commando to ignore his wound, nor does a kid intentionally ignore the slathering of gluey juice, rather it simply isn’t on the radar of ‘Things That Are Important Right Now’.
Of course, when that final wedge was finished, you were left with a rind of the perfect size and weight that needed to be hucked into the woods/lake/ocean or sometimes onto the roof. It was food after-all, so it wasn’t littering.