I'm not certain, frankly, what triggers this curious behavior, but I recognize its onset and am aware that it presents a serious danger to me. Like the blue-footed booby male bird who assists with nesting in the Galápagos Islands, I offer my simple contribution, then stand back and allow the dominant female to pursue her furious labor. Only she knows what to do and how to do it.
I find it best to hunker down in the den with a book. My motive is to distance myself from the tornado that's been unleashed in my household, and to avoid the very real possibility of being stuffed into a plastic bag myself.
One of the closets that Hedy plundered last weekend yielded a trove of photographs taken during the early years of our marriage, including a number of shots from our 1975 Hawaiian honeymoon on the isles of Oahu, Maui and Kauai. I hadn't seen them in decades.
Though I'm one who's taken innumerable photos during my lifetime, rarely do I revisit them. I'm a sentimentalist, and old family photos can bring on a bout of melancholia, which I seek to avoid. Therefore, I try to resist cracking open an old album or sorting through stacks of faded photos.
I convince myself that I'll examine them at some later date — which, of course, I never do.
Self-discipline deserted me this time, however. I perused the pics.
Oh, my goodness!
The honeymooners were so young! I was 30, she 24. And she was breathtakingly beautiful! The girl I married so long ago to this day takes my breath away.
"How did you ever convince her to marry you?" I wondered aloud, ogling the antediluvian pictures with fascination.
There I was, on a Hawaiian beach in 1975, a less-than-spectacular-looking guy with bushy curly hair, an unkempt beard, painfully thin, wearing shorts and coming out of the water. A vision!
What did she see in him?