8-8-88! Lettuce celebr8 our st8 of welded bliss
“The day started out as uneventfully as any other, and continued thus to midday, and from there it was nothing at all to ease into an evening of numbing, undiluted monotony that survived unmarred by even the least act of momentary peculiarity—in fact, let’s skip that day altogether and start with the day after.”*
Times twenty years. AH, what a fun ride it’s been, getting old together. I am throwing in a picture when we were mere middle aged kidless kids with a bicycle factory to play with and a whole mountain to play on.
My Italian friend Raffa reminds me that OTTO means eight. Of course I know that, but that is in the “proximal foreign linguini” lobe of my brain, and I had not quite integrated this numeralogical coincidence…whew. Beats going in circles…(JP thinks for a mintue, trying to work a moebius strip into the monologue…no luck. She’s tired, she’s done a three hour ride today to mark the time in weather IDENTICAL to the day we tied the unafraid knot. Fogggggggy below, suuuuunny above Mt Tam’s waistline).
Like virtually every other wombat with control issues, I proposed to Charlie.
I also picked the date.
The hell with it being a Monday, let’s see who our real friends are!”
The letterpress invitation would be easier with most of the numbers coming out of the same little box in the job case.
Besides, I wanted to bowl that line of little eights over–domino-style–leaving four infinities rolling about in an attempt to confer good luck and longevity upon Charlie’s and my ‘lawful welded union’.
A quick google search of the that quartet of numbers broke my heart: along with our merryiage, the date marked the outbreak of the bloody, failed Burmese uprising where thousands were killed by soldiers in the streets. Guess it was a lousy date to have a revolution, luck-wise.
Meanwhile, back in Marin, fifty mountain bikers loafed about the West Point Inn that sunny Monday, eating their very first taste of ratatouille (mtn bikers were–and are–unadventurous eaters), and discussing a ‘cosmic convergence’.
As if the heavens even paid attention to that sort of thing.
In the ensuing years, Charlie and I learned (from the telly) that wombats have a little courtship dance that involves pursuing one another in figures-of-eight!
WOW! Proof of something, but we’re not sure what.
Wombats were ice-skaters in another life?
We aspire to another boring twenty, and praying the Burmese get to experience the luxury of boredom in this lifetime…
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*This is something I WISH I wrote, but no, Jay Solmonson wrote it, winning mention in the Bulwer-Lytton writing contest, which takes place each year around here, inspiring writers to crank out turgid prose.