Well put me in a skirt and call me “Loretta.” Last night, I figuratively kicked the teenage me in the nuts and then spit on him.
When I was sixteen, I wrote one of those letters to my future self, to be opened at the age of forty. That was more than five years ago, but I still have the Pulitzer-worthy correspondence. And since it’s pertinent to today’s post, I’ll reproduce it here for your amusement.
Dear Old Richard,
I’ll be quick, just in case someone finally makes a movie out of the Lord of the Rings and you need to get to the theater. I don’t care what you do with your life as long as you don’t do any of these things.
1. Become a lawyer. Do you really want Frank for your role model?
2. Live anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon line. You won’t want to mix with a bunch of rednecks flying the Confederate flag!
3. Do drugs. They’re nobody’s friend.
4. Keep screwing up. I don’t have time to list all the ways that can happen. But you know what I mean.
5. Whatever else, don’t be one of those shemales who carries a crappy little dog around in a purse.
Sure, I violated every item on teenage me’s “don’t” list. But it’s the last that would’ve hurt him the most. Sorry young Richard, but Sophia insisted on taking Prometheus along to the bookstore last night, nestled in his very own Louis Vuitton pocketbook. I tried to keep my distance from the pair as the Mrs. sauntered along — the bag hanging from her shoulder and the critter’s little head poking out. I did my best to act like I didn’t know them. But what’s a guy supposed to do when his wife starts whining about her aching shoulder and asks him to “please, please carry the bag for a while?” I’ll tell you and the younger me what he does … if he wants some lovin’ when he gets home. He grabs his temporary “manpurse,” swings it over his shoulder, and hopes he doesn’t need to use the Ladies’ Room during the next half hour.