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With summer time fast approaching, I felt it was time to embrace my summer ‘do and shave my head. I wasn’t allowed to shave my head last summer because The Wife wanted to make sure I had hair for our wedding (which is kinda silly because it takes me about three weeks to grow a full head of hair). I like to buzz my hair short for the summer because it gets ungodly hot. Plus, sometimes I just get sick of hair. All the washing and conditioning. Spending two or three minutes every morning styling it. Not being able to wear a hat because I’ll mess it up. Just between you, me, and the World Wide Web I’d much rather sport a maintenance-free shaved head than look good with my dark, curly locks.
I have always put comfort over appearance (a trait that’s obvious to anyone who has ever seen my wardrobe). Funny thing about personal appearance, you rarely get to look at it. Sure, there are those few minutes in front of the mirror in the morning or perhaps if someone snaps a photo. But for the most part, you never look at yourself. Suppose I buy a new . . . . .
I am a volatile snorer. As I’ve stated many times before, it’s not an issue to me; however, The Wife insists it’s bad for her sleep and detrimental to our marriage. I rarely snore loud enough to wake myself up but since I’m not the only one in the bedroom, a solution must be found.
She started off with earplugs. Even though she found them uncomfortable, she was able to block out my trumpeting and sleep soundly…for a week. According to her, my snoring got worse and earplugs could no longer stop my snoring from rattling her brain.
I had my tonsils removed. Since my tonsils were “unusually large,” the doctor said taking ’em out would clear some space for air to flow and the snoring would cease. After the operation, The Wife said my snoring went away and she was finally able to sleep…for a week. Even though air had a clear path, my body found away and the snoring resumed.
The next step was more surgery. This time, the doctor cleaned out my ‘turbs’ (whatever they may be). Doc said it could increase airflow anywhere from 10-30 percent. I immediately felt the difference and realized I could finally . . . . .
I got hit with a batted ball again this week–I feel like I’m a marked man. It’s rare to see someone get hit by a ball–yet I’ve had more balls come at me than a gay porn star. Man, I’ve had a lot of close calls over the past six months. I’ve only discussed the ones that hit me: there’s been a lot of near-misses, too…and as far as I can tell, it’s just me. No one else on my team seems to have balls come their way–I’m the only one.
The opposing team was short a guy so they had to play without a second baseman. After every pitch, the pitcher stepped towards right field in case a ball got hit that way. Most of the time it’s a futile effort–one player simply can’t cover that much ground. But it helps slow the bleeding because at least teams can’t intentionally try and hit it there.
I was standing on second base with our three-hitter up. One the very first pitch, I saw where the pitcher was throwing the ball, the batter was in the box, and the nature of his swing I knew it immediately: He’s going to hit . . . . .
I have a theory that when I was a little kid–possibly even before I was born–a giant bonked me on the head with the bottom of his fist. It’s the only explanation I can come up with. My head is a gigantic enormousity. My feet are too wide for the widest shoes Nike can make. My broad shoulders make sitting next to someone in a movie theater or ball game extremely uncomfortable. Even my tonsils have been diagnosis as “unusually large” by doctors. I’ve got a six-foot-five body stuck in a five-foot-six frame. Everything it too wide. Even something as simple as buying batting gloves proves to be difficult (the sizer says my fingers are as long as a tee baller but because my wrist is wider than a sumo wrestler’s, they always rip at the seams). It’s discouraging ’cause nothing on my body fits my body. Even my wide ass doesn’t fit for someone this short–or white.
I know I don’t entirely take care of myself. I’m getting better. Now I take Tylenol when I get a headache and Tums for indigestion. But I used to just ‘tough’ out uncomfortable situations. As I get older, I’m doing a better . . . . .
The gravitational pull that is my giant head pulled in a new object the other day while playing softball. I was walking back to the dugout when someone chucked a bat in my general direction. I didn’t see it–but I heard screams to look out. Instinctively, I crouched down and covered my head with my arms. The bat narrowly missed me, falling in between my legs, ricocheted off the ground, and hit me square in the manhood. I wish I could boast about the benefits of wearing a cup…unfortunately, I’ve never been the athletic support type.
Now the skeptic would say this is proof that my head isn’t that large and it doesn’t have its own gravitational pull. Instead of hitting me in the cranium, the bat fell short. But a softball bat is a heavy object. I believe the gravitational field of my head pulled the bat closer to me–but wasn’t strong enough to fully pull that bat into my head. Kinda like the way comets circle around the sun. Gravity is strong enough to alter the orbit–but not enough to pull the object in.
And that’s what it’s come down to: I’m comparing my head to celestial objects. . . . . .
I don’t know what it is about my giant head–I swear, it must have its own gravitational pull. I was throwing the softball around with a buddy when he threw a ball way out of my reach. I jumped for it, but had no chance. The ball hit a pole six feet behind me–and ricocheted into the back of my head. Immediately, all my friends started laughing because such a thing could only happen to me–or Jose Canseco.
What are the odds? The pole had maybe–maybe–an eight-inch circumference. What are the odds of the ball hitting it? And even less likely–what are the odds of a round ball hitting a round pole and bouncing directly back in the direction it came from? Not to mention, if I didn’t jump for the ball, it would’ve missed my head. The only way that ball bounces directly back and hits me in the head is if my cranium has its own gravitational field. The ball was drawn to my melon like a meteorite to the earth. It had no choice due to an uncontrollable, powerful force–gravity.
My head gets banged on more often than Ricky Ricardo’s bongos. I’m not sure if this is . . . . .
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