Tagged: women
Making Friends At The Gym
One of the reasons I joined the mega-gym in town was to be more social and hopefully meet some new people. It has not gone well. I can’t quite put my finger on why not, but I think I am beginning to see a bit of a pattern.
First, and foremost, I am often motivated to talk to female members because I watch them talk to other men and everyone looks like they’re having fun. And especially of late, I’ve been more bold in striking up conversations with people that I’ve wanted to, regardless of my estimation at success. For your enjoyment today, I’d like to share three examples with you.
Before we get going though, I wonder how many of you have ever read Ben Franklin’s letter to a young man about a mistress? I doubt many of you have, so I’ll post the meat of it here for easy access. It’s well worth a read. I promise.
…then I repeat my former advice, that in all your amours you should prefer old women to young ones. You call this a paradox, and demand my reasons. They are these:
1. Because as they have more knowledge of the world and their minds are better stored with observations, their conversation is more improving and more lastingly agreeable.
2. Because when women cease to be handsome, they study to be good. To maintain their influence over men, they supply the diminution of beauty by an augmentation of utility. They learn to do a 1000 services small and great, and are the most tender and useful of all friends when you are sick. Thus they continue amiable. And hence there is hardly such a thing to be found as an old woman who is not a good woman.
3. Because there is no hazard of children, which irregularly produced may be attended with much inconvenience.
4. Because through more experience, they are more prudent and discreet in conducting an intrigue to prevent suspicion. The commerce with them is therefore safer with regard to your reputation. And with regard to theirs, if the affair should happen to be known, considerate people might be rather inclined to excuse an old woman who would kindly take care of a young man, form his manners by her good counsels, and prevent his ruining his health and fortune among mercenary prostitutes.
5. Because in every animal that walks upright, the deficiency of the fluids that fill the muscles appears first in the highest part: The face first grows lank and wrinkled; then the neck; then the breast and arms; the lower parts continuing to the last as plump as ever: So that covering all above with a basket, and regarding only what is below the girdle, it is impossible of two women to know an old from a young one. And as in the dark all cats are grey, the pleasure of corporal enjoyment with an old woman is at least equal, and frequently superior, every knack being by practice capable of improvement.
6. Because the sin is less. The debauching a virgin may be her ruin, and make her for life unhappy.
7. Because the compunction is less. The having made a young girl miserable may give you frequent bitter reflections; none of which can attend the making an old woman happy.
8thly and Lastly: They are so grateful!!
It’s difficult to write after reading something as great as that. Anyhow.
Still with me? Good. The point of including that advice is to say that there is this older woman at the gym. I noticed her straight away one morning and couldn’t help but think to myself that she had a very natural beauty to her, the kind that is possessed by women who don’t know they have it. One day I introduced myself and we had a brief chat. The following week, her daughter was with her. Besides receiving all the important genes from her mom, the daughter appeared to be equal parts college student and cross-fit games champion. As such, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the pair. Suddenly, however, I was struck by something funny. On this day, unlike all others, the mom was going balls-to-the-wall as they say. Her daughter was spotting her every set and it seemed like some real results were nearby. This was rather silly to me. Nonetheless, my brain filled with what I thought was a good enough line to use to open the door to conversation. So I went with it. I finished watching them double team a machine from the close by station I was at and then walked over and said, as if delivering a useful secret, “I don’t know if you two know this or not, but the gym kinda frowns on two people using one machine at the same time. Something about liability.” Only half way through the delivery did I notice the daughter had in her ears the smallest, most invisible of ear-buds, which left the mom to be the lone recipient of my charm. And despite outstanding delivery on my part, which concluded with my beautiful smile, she responded with, “What?” And like a fool, I repeated myself. It was hell. No laughs either time. I walked away tail tucked between my legs and later apologized. Oh well.
Next, I have seen the same employee lady nearly every day I go and sometimes she even smiles at me. I figure to myself that gym employees, like all employees, would always prefer a fun day to a boring day. Boy was I wrong. This particular day I see that she’s helping a lady who talks like the Champion of Everything but appears to struggle daily with at least one thing. In any case, I happen to notice my girl enter a one-handed battle with a weight rack for possession of a 45lb plate. Again, leading with a tip-giving countenance, I offer, “You’ll find it takes less than half the time if you use two hands next time.” Crickets. I might have broken the no running policy to escape that real-life example of awkward.
Lastly, I see a lady with whom I’ve nearly successfully delivered one of these singular conversation starters in the past. She’s on the lying down leg curl machine. It’s the only one in the building. I would like to use it. Trouble is, she’s doing some other fandangled exercise on it. However, the exercise she’s doing on it is so wrong, that it must be right. Or, put another way, she must be intending to do whatever she’s doing. As an ice breaker after which I’ll ask to work in with her, of course resetting the machine for her after every set of mine as gentlemen do, I say, “So when I’m not sure how to use a machine, I usually look at the diagrams posted on it. For instance, you’ll see pictures right here. And if I’m still not sure what to do, I-” She cuts me off, asking, “Are you serious?” I continue unphased, saying, “-I then move to the written description of the movement. And, like everything, read left-to-right, top-to-bottom.” Another “Are you serious?” later and I smile. Minor conversation starts and I determine that the only reason she was a willing participant is because she has very, very low self-esteem and figured such a demonstrably wise man as myself might add himself to the list of men who award her daily validation from here on out and that’s just not my game. Conversation over.
And there you have it. I know I’d be friends with a guy or girl bold enough to deliver these lines.
Pooches
“I want macaroni and cheese,” H- said as the waitress held out her pad. She smiled at the girl’s boldness.
Then addressing the little girl’s dad, the waitress clarified, “It’s not Kraft macaroni and cheese, but our own homemade version. It has a heavy cheese sauce-”
“I love homemade macaroni and cheese,” H- interrupted.
Again, the waitress smiled. As did the dad.
“I need a few more minutes,” he said, “but you can bring hers out whenever.”
“Okay.”
Minutes elapsed as H- and her dad partook in their respective lunches during spring break.
H- broke the silence and smartly volunteered, “I should eat all my macaroni and cheese before the strawberries, right?”
Smiling, her dad answered, “Right.”
A few more minutes of diligence on H-‘s part passed.
“You really should eat more, H-.”
“Eat? Look at my tummy. It’s so full,” she began, attempting to stick her non-existent belly out. Then, as if realizing she may be her own worst enemy, she added with determined eyes, “But not too full for dessert.”
“It’s not even big, H-,” he answered, rolling his eyes at the four year old’s endeavor.
“Do you know what a pooch is, Daddy?”
He didn’t want to let her see his shock at her question, so he delicately, though quickly, shifted his eyes from hers to something a few inches away. “Pooch?” he thought. “Why does my daughter know what a pooch is? What moron–no, what mother fucker is using the word pooch around little girls? As if little girls don’t have enough bullshit to worry about in this world, some knucklehead is even now ruining their already set-up-for-failure image innocence. Never again will I let her out of my sight-”
“It’s a dog!”
He turned. Relief? Alleviation, perhaps? Mitigation? Easement? None of these words capture the feeling this answer gave him.
“Maybe the world’s not such a terrible place,” he thought.
eIfYouHaveADogYouDon’tActuallyWantAManSoGetOffTheSite-ony
Ahhh! I can’t believe I’m admitting this. I know, I know. This one is going to ruffle a few feathers. Oh well. Get over it.
To begin, my eHarmony profile reveal for today: The First Thing People Notice About Me…
I usually wear glasses with large white frames, and that my mom made me
wear braces as a child.
Isn’t that clever? Not the white glasses part (that’s just honest), but the part about good teeth. And why do people notice good teeth? Because I’m smiling a lot. Layers.
I’d date me. Apparently I’m the only one. It’s been one month of membership and not a single date.
As a reminder, eHarmony sends 10 matches and 30 more “what ifs” for your consideration each day. The matches are supposed to be just that, people who fit your criteria/settings. The “what ifs” are people that you might be a match if it wasn’t for little things like location. I haven’t had a proper “match” since day one. Even the “matches” that they tell me are matches are just “what ifs” that somehow are presented as “matches.” But they’re not matches. They all say, “So-and-so is a great match who just happens to be outside of your settings.” (To be clear–eHarmony is a crock of shit, don’t waste your money fellas.) My “what ifs” live in Oklahoma, Utah, Texas, Kansas, Arizona, Montana, Wyoming and Idaho, which I believe are all states not in or around Denver.
As with all of life’s trials and tribulations, however, I know the fault is my own. You see, one of my criteria (I don’t think it’s listed anywhere) is I don’t date women with dogs. (Or cats, but cats is due to allergies.) Why not? Because my ex left me with the $1200 dog that only she wanted in the first place, and so I was the one who got to hear H- say, “Where’d my dog go?” as we walked from the dumb friends league foyer to our car without it. Because I couldn’t stand watching the next woman I dated rearrange the furniture daily for her dog. Because I will never understand why anyone would live their life on a twelve hour leash to an animal. Because the woman I dated after her had two little shits that of course weren’t shits to her, but they were and I was supposed to be fine with them joining us on the couch. Well, I wasn’t. They’re animals. And it’s not cute or acceptable that they jump on people. Moreover, it’s maddening to watch dog owners repeat the same silly behavior endlessly as if they are in control.
But more than that, I don’t date women with dogs because they invariably and inexplicably choose the animal over the human. When given the proposition “man or dog,” they choose the dog. And that’s just wrong. “I know I never got around to having kids like I wanted, but I did get to carry little bags of warm shit every day. I mean that’s something.” Right.
As if there wasn’t enough to sift through during a relationship between adult humans, I am supposed to be fine with ten more years of your dogs jumping on me every time I come over? Fine with watching you push them down only to notice they snagged your clothing and that you now have to change outfits? Ten more years of your dogs waking us up because they have to pee even when we could have slept in? Not to mention that your car is filthy and smells. And don’t even get me started on the actual dollar amount involved in owning a dog.
I just can’t deal with the fact that such an invasive, intrusive part of a single woman’s life is something she advertises like it’s no big thing, or worse, like it’s attractive in her profile–sometimes in multiple forms. From pictures to “what I’m passionate about” to “things I can’t live without” dogs are everywhere. Go, Dog. Go!
I know, I know. Women are not wrong for liking dogs, they’re just not for me. That doesn’t mean it’s not frustrating. So I wrote about it.
Are Atheists Arrogant? Yes.
I recently responded to a friend’s seemingly angry comment to my favorable views of Christianity by suggesting she calm down. She did. Then she asked that I watch a presentation (that you can find here) in which a speaker essentially claims that my asking this friend to calm down was an example of me unwittingly antagonizing the social change movement known as atheism. News to me.
The presentation, by a woman named Greta Christina, is very generalized and therefore incapable of doing much more than rabble rousing. However, I would like to address one topic that I find fascinating. Here’s her claim:
“I get angry when believers say that the entire unimaginable hugeness of the universe was made entirely for the human race, [whereas] atheists by contrast say that humanity is this infinitesimal eye-blink in the vastness of time and space. And then religious believers accuse atheists of being arrogant.”
As I see it, we’re all guessing. We’re all looking at the data and drawing conclusions. More than that there are two levels at play here that she doesn’t seem to recognize. One level is the idea. The other is the proponent of the idea. If I expound the believers’ idea, I can also humbly admit that it’s just my best guess. No different than an atheist can admit that they are not certain. However, when the atheist or believer declares that for certain they are right, there is naturally, in both cases, an additional off-putting arrogance. And I am no more a fan of religious zealots who prematurely end the dialogue with claims of certainty than I am of atheists who do so. But in my experience, including this woman, while believers can be annoying in their certitude, atheists rue the day when it comes to arrogance. It’s inherent to their argument, the argument that goes something like,
“There are objective, scientific facts to be known. I know them. As facts are synonymous with truth, I know the truth. Moreover if you disagree with me, you’re disagreeing with the truth and consequently you are wrong. (And stupid).”
Does anyone remember the end of The Matrix Revolutions? (That’s the name of number three). The machines are trying to once and for all defeat humanity. Their agent, Agent Smith, asks our agent, Neo, who won’t stop fighting, “Why? Why, why do you persist?” Neo’s answer: “Because I choose to.” Smith’s question embodies the same argument as the atheist’s, just more eloquently. And it is arrogant. As if life is a computation to be solved and afterwards things will be normal.
Is it an arrogant idea that the unimaginable universe was created for little ol’ me? I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like it. It’s just my freely chosen conclusion–as of today–after studying the historical record and living among you for thirty-three years. Is it an arrogant idea that an infinitesimal eye-blink or even a very numerous group of them have accurately and finally recognized a system of knowledge that answers, “Why?” or “What for?” in a way that demands unquestioning allegiance? Yes. Yes, I’m afraid it is.
All The World’s Not A Stage–It’s A Runway
Not to argue with Shakespeare, but from my humble experience all the world’s not a stage–it’s a runway. I don’t mean Top Gun runway, I mean runway like Zoolander–the place where fashion is king.
Topping a long list of very surprising situations in which I have discovered, post Air Force, that appearance reigns is last Saturday’s episode. I found myself wearing a black suit with a black open-collar button-down underneath it. A gold chain around my neck suspended a gold security officer badge. I was stationed at the front of a bar while the St. Patrick’s Day parade was passing by just outside. My mission: prevent liquid from passing by me in either direction.
At least I had a stool to sit on.
The guy who arranged the gig freely told me he wanted me specifically (out of three others) to man this highly visible post at the fairly nice bar because I had “the look.” It didn’t take long for a few of the older women from the group nearest me to come over.
“What are you? Off-duty cop?”
“Nope.”
“Right. You’re the best dressed off-duty cop I’ve ever seen. What’s that badge say?”
“It’s just for show.”
“Sure it is. I like your glasses.”
“Thank you.”
“Can we get a picture with you?” Turning to a friend, she says, “Hey. Use my phone, I want to get a picture with this guy. Isn’t he the best-dressed cop you’ve seen?”
One of the older guys with them then says to me with a knowing nod, “It’s pays to be good-looking, no?”
That proved the day’s only photo-op (luckily–it was exhausting) but about three more times before the end of the shift I found myself unable to convince talkative admirers that I was not an off-duty policeman and that the badge was just a psychological aide to calmness and security for the less talkative. Can you imagine my consternation? I’d suggest envisioning an ironic, unbelieving smile for starters.
A new portrait of the world is slowly forming in my head. One that includes me dressing like a millionaire and parking my Elantra several brisk-paced blocks away.
Because We’re Men
I don’t know what you call it. I’ve never heard a name for it. I think it’s exclusively a male thing, yet I can’t say I’ve ever asked a lady if she’s experienced it. With the advent of texting, however, this unnameable feeling previously limited to the physical realm has made its way to the digital world. And I don’t like it.
The fellas know what I’m talking about. There are moments in life. Maybe you’re standing in line together at the newest Expendables movie. Or maybe you’re both scanning the restaurant for hot-chicks-that-you-won’t-talk-to as you each reach for the salt. The setup isn’t really important. What’s important is the unexpected and new sensation on your hand. It’s heavy. It’s hairy. It’s rough. It’s another man’s hand. It’s your friend’s hand. Something about the moment causes the collision to continue until you make eye contact and only then do you both pull away. Of course the manly-man military/police/firefighter crowd, always looking to distinguish itself from its sissy-man peers, rejects this absolute refusal to touch and, usually, what starts as an inconsequential bumping of mitts becomes full-on hand-holding that is more often than not accompanied by a witty expression such as, “I don’t mind if you don’t mind.”
And I freely admit that this is a very funny moment, especially when it involves the uninitiated.
But as if texting isn’t difficult enough as is, we men are making it harder on ourselves these days. You know what I’m talking about. With women, we’re adding bogus punctuation and emoticons left and right to make sure we don’t come across as creepy or stalker or needy or rude or sexting or, well, you get the picture. 🙂 But this unnamable feeling that I get when I accidentally touch another man’s hand, well that’s the same feeling I get when I see a text from a buddy who has apparently forgotten that he’s texting a man. What is the deal with male-to-male exclamation points or smiley faces? It just feels wrong, doesn’t it? It’s weak. It’s creepy. It’s stalker-ish.
Take George and I for example. If I text something to George that is so sarcastic that he doesn’t think he gets the joke or my meaning, he simply responds like he should. He replies, “I don’t think I understand.” Because he’s a man. And then I re-attack with more consideration. Or I would maybe just reply “nm.” I might even just not reply. And yet we remain friends. I don’t think I ever have, but say I texted him something that sounded like I intended to sleep with him next time we met. Even then, he’d simply say, “Did you just ask if I would sleep with you?” Because he’s a man. Then in that situation, despite his dashing good looks and fit figure, which probably has epic stamina, I would reply, “No.” And that would be it. Because we’re men.
So fellas, please. Please pay attention from now on. When it’s me you’re texting, lose the gimmicks. Unlike the lady folk, our relationship is not dependent on proper text etiquette. Thank you.
That is all.
Free Day At The Art Museum
“Pete, I think that that was the line.”
“There are so many couples here.”
“We’re the cutest couple in this place,” say two teenage girls loud enough for 1995 to hear after taking a selfie.
A flock of college students approach a twenty foot tall stack of folded quilts. To the agreement of the rest, one female righteously asserts, “They should give these to the homeless.”
“George.”
“Yeah, Pete?”
“I don’t think I’m a museum person.”
“Me neither.”
“I mean it’s alright, but I’m not that intrigued or even empathetic to the artwork. I don’t get most of it. I saw that Picasso piece. I was impressed that I was actually looking at a Picasso. Really, though, all I know is he cut off his ear.”
“He was insane.”
“Right. I will say this though. You and I, and H-, we’re walking around here, looking around. When you see something you like, you walk away, and I don’t think twice. I’ve been doing the same. H- too. Then we find each other and move on. It’s a very nice pace. But I’ve never seen couples do that. Have you been watching the guy’s faces as they follow their women around? Art is a very individual thing, no?”
“I have. Did you see that one, the dude with that smokin’ redhead by where we had H- dancing to the African drums? He looked miserable.”
“Oh my god. George. Read that first sentence over there.”
George turns and reads about Jaune Quick-to-See Smith’s Trade Canoe for Don Quixote piece.
Indian canoes were used on the river highways for thousands of years, but after the Great Invasion, they were also used by trappers, traders and U.S. government agents.
His head quickly retreats an inch in disbelief before turning to Pete.
“I know. Great Invasion. How does that get published? Just stick to drawing lady.”
“I wonder how far she’ll get before she realizes you’re not next to her.”
“I don’t know. She’s been doing it all day.”
Pete quickens his pace to keep H- in sight.
“Little girl! Little girl! Where’s your pare-”
“I’m here.”
“Sir, you need to stay in the same room as your child. You don’t know how many kids we lose here.”
Congratulations, You’re Finally A Man. Now What?
Yes, ladies, I’m talking to you. You did it! And I couldn’t be prouder. Not that I ever doubted you.
But here’s my question: What would I have to do if I wanted to become a woman? Don’t laugh. I’m serious. I want to know.
I don’t mean that I want to go under the knife for this change. You didn’t have to for yours, so why should I? What would I have to do?
I’m no good at small talk, so let’s get to the point. I don’t actually want to be a woman. Not because I see anything wrong with it, but because I love being a man. Love it. I get to be stronger than you. I got to fight a war. (Well, if put under our days’ heavy scrutiny on claims of valor, it is more accurate to say I got to “participate in combat operations where our aircraft (rental) was fired upon (small arms) only a (singular) handful of times–if that (it was dark)”.) I get to be taller and heavier than you. What else? In 2015, what else do I get to love about being a man? Oh, here’s one. *Don’t shoot me* but manual labor-wise, I can out work you.
Humph. Now that I’m attempting to write this clever post, I’m struggling. Everything I love about being a man involves physicality, which seems to have been used in times past to protect, to guard, to keep safe. But what needs protecting, guarding, or keeping safe if you women are now men in every way save size and strength? All along, I thought women were what needed this protection. But now that you all are men, I’m confused. Maybe the mistake was mine. Maybe men never were protecting women. What were they protecting then? Seems like weakness is what some would answer, men were protecting the weaker members of society. Maybe some men were, but not me. I never wanted to protect weakness. I wanted to protect rightness. Keeping weakness alive and safe is counter-intuitive. What were men protecting?
Were men protecting strength? Like a Batman “[You have to] Endure, Master Wayne,” kind of strength? Were men protecting forgiveness? Were they protecting decency? Were men protecting grace? How about love? Were men protecting love? Would love exist if there were no women? Seems like making love would be tougher without women. I wonder if they were protecting life itself, in protecting women. Is that possible? And don’t tell me that you women haven’t become like men in this regard, either. I see you. I hear you. You don’t want to make babies, just like men can’t make babies. Have you thought that one through, though? Really thought it through?
Look. Like most men, I’m no saint. Read my book and you’ll see. I messed up. But that doesn’t mean I’m dumb. I get it. You’re scared. But I’d suggest joining me in striving to be better, rather than overcoming your fear by changing into what you dread (second Dark Knight mention if you’re keeping track George). You did it. You proved you could become one of us. But now it’s time to put the costume up (third). It’s time to show me what it means to be a woman–only you can do that.
Ladies, don’t be a man. Be a better woman.
I Thought This Was eHarmony?
No thanks to your comments I decided to go ahead and bite the bullet. I hate it because I have quit two times before and I usually stick to my guns on things. But I’m back at it. Online dating, here we go again.
I have no idea what the uninitiated know about online dating, but I love to share how it goes down as if they know nothing. Today’s post is about a difference between the sites and also Christ.
Besides your suggestions, the reason I’m back is because I recently learned that eHarmony doesn’t let you browse profiles. Other sites (OkCupid, Plenty of Fish, Match, Christian Mingle) allow a user to view anyone’s profile (even same-sex profiles that are not searching for same-sex relationships–which I mention here because it makes me laugh every time I picture the straight dudes’ faces when they saw some other straight dude had visited their page. What can I say? I am not afraid to scope out the competition and adjust accordingly.) Anyhow, this free-browsing, for a person like me, means a lot–I mean a lot–of profile viewing. Probably not a bad thing in and of itself, but the amount of time it takes is ridiculous. Especially, if, like me, you aren’t getting any dates. That’s why I quit last time. Too much time spent not dating. But this–this no browsing thing–is quite nice. What isn’t nice, and moreover is awfully humorous, is that while I thought I was signing up for eHarmony, it appears I may be on Christian Mingle.
You see, however I answered the questions about myself, the only women the site is feeding me as potential matches are those with Christ at the center of their lives, those whose faith is their number one priority, those who are looking for a man to be the spiritual leader of their family, and those who want a man for whom God is as important to him as he is to them. Wow. I felt kind of dirty after reading the twentieth or so version of that. No pressure, right?
Don’t get me wrong ladies. Seek what you want. Want what you want. I just don’t even know what any of those sentences mean. More than that, I have to admit that the mental image I get after reading those sentences is one of ignorance, weakness, and fear. What does that say? Oh well. Different strokes for different folks.
Since seeing this trend, I have looked back through my modifiable settings and I can’t find anything that indicates I only want a woman like this, most notably, I don’t have a religion requirement. The only thing I can think is that it must have been my answers to the personality questions, which unfortunately I cannot change without first, creating a new profile and second, lying.
Come to think of it, I did answer “strongly agree” that a woman’s place is the kitchen and that the ideal woman is one who recognizes the futility of “thinking for herself”. Maybe that’s what did it?
Like I tried to express before, I’m pretty sure some personalities just don’t fit into the boxes that are online dating profiles. Only time will tell. I am actually excited to discover if these women are telling the truth. We’ll see.
And if I didn’t say it before, thank you. This is fun.
The Crumby Face
“Type daddy, type!” H- said.
The pair was finishing up breakfast. That is to say he was finished and had moved on to the laptop and she was diligently using her fork’s four tips to scrape up every last bit of cinnamon roll frosting from his plate, having already completed the chore on hers.
He looked towards her, tapped his skull, and smiled as he said, “I’m thinking of ideas.”
“I’m going to count in my head,” she responded naturally.
“Nice, H-. Do that,” he said, returning to the laptop.
A moment passed before she announced, “Daddy, I’m thinking of ideas,” and in doing so chased away one of his.
He turned.
“Oh yeah?”
He wanted to get frustrated, but a dab of icing and an abnormally large chunk of the roll prevented any emotion from surfacing save head-shaking disbelief.
She hadn’t spilled in ages. She used adult size silverware. She dressed herself, sometimes even expressing gratitude when seeing that what he laid out for her matched. She could lift the piano key lid and make her own music for thirty seconds at a time before tiring. And despite answering, “The dragon talks?” when asked how she liked her dad’s Smaug-turned-Bane stylings, she could even call out sight words as she struggled to get comfortable atop him at bedtime.
But when it came to actually fitting food in her mouth, the battle was lost.
He began a careful examination of the data with high hopes of determining she wasn’t at fault. As she returned his stare, shadows shed light on the explanation. He swung round for a profile view. She matched him.
“Hold still H-,” he excitedly requested. Then he happily declared, “Yep, that’s the problem.”
I mean, could you keep food off of your cheeks if they stuck out farther than your lips?