Making Sense of This New World

Are you an alien?

Don’t answer that. The question above was the latest asked by A. of yours truly. I like to think of it as a rhetorical question, really. As in, I know you are an alien, but just how long were you planning on trying to maintain a secret identity?

Now that we’re living in the land of catfish, blues and cotton, I fear that everyone has discovered my alien identity. I keep hearing that David Byrne song from somewhere behind my right ear:

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house,
with a beautiful Wife
And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?

So the song may not exactly fit my situation, although I do admit to wishing I had a beautiful house and a beautiful wife so that she could do all the laundry in the beautiful house, make Walmart runs (yes, gentle reader, Walmart), and cook lavish dinners that we could all sit down to by candlelight. She could also make me feel sufficiently guilty about not exercising such that I could resist that second piece of pecan pie…

Speaking of desserts. Oh what I wouldn’t give for a powdered sugar Dunkin Donut and a French vanilla coffee…I’ve made up my mind that while I’m in DC next month, I simply must have one. Maybe then I will think my life is the same as it ever was.

Same as it ever was.