We had lunch at the in-laws, who are wonderful people. Then my wife and daughters went to her cousin’s for her cousin’s daughter’s birthday party. She is one of the unfortunate ones with a birthday on or about Christmas. I don’t feel sorry for her, though, because she is, at three, a towering monster child, a blonde Frankenstein with feet nearly the size of my wife’s (who is an adult) (Gamma, who is more than two years older, wears her hand-me-downs); size doesn’t matter, of course, except she has what I think is a mean streak. And their family is outrageously dysfunctional, which can be entertaining provided one can maintain ironic distance; around the holidays, though, it is hard for me to be ironic, so I worked out instead. The tattooed shaved-headed guy from the tanning salon was there. Woet for Christmas.
We’re relieved to know that your wife is an adult. We’ve been wondering, since you never came right out and said so before.