Day 215

The shocking confessions of a Serial Mover and the untold horrors of the world’s most shocking Genital Maladies.

Not two days into the next chapter of my life, I find myself in a bit of a slump.  A depression of sorts.  And no, it has nothing to do with getting older.  So what has me so down?  I couldn’t quite put my finger on it until late yesterday evening.  I started to dismiss it as the usual seasonal affective disorder that plagues so many when the summer is gone and one faces the onslaught of winter, but our constantly mild temperatures make this an impossible claim.  The truth is that both the wife and I are afflicted with an incurable illness.  I blame her entirely as I am quite sure I had a clean bill of health before we met.  Perhaps it is more of an addiction than an illness.  To call it an illness would presume that it would eventually go away with appropriate medical treatment.  An addiction, however, often defies treatment and can scarcely be controlled by its victim.  We are often faced with the same line of questioning from the people we meet in life.  The question usually follows a proclamation as to how many times we have moved.  “Why”, is often the natural question that follows.  “Why” is something we hear with some frequency and it has come with increasing frequency now that we have moved to a country a quarter way around the world with the inability to speak the mother tongue.  I must admit, it is a good question.  If I were to approach it from a medical standpoint, I would argue that we suffer from EMOTIONAL ADHD.  If, however, we are going to classify it as an addiction it would be simply stated in standing before a room of our peers by saying “We are the Butlers and we are CHANGEAHOLICS”.  This addiction to change is not one so easily shaken.  It stems from a restless heart and the ADHD of our soul which makes it damned near impossible to sit still.  I said it best in my prior post.  We are at that point in this life changing process that we should be able to simply sit still and soak it all in.  Unfortunately, the very thought of this sends the wife and I into a raging bout of the DTs.  Some would try to dress it up a bit and call us “Adventurous”.  That is a sugar coated and inaccurate statement if ever there was one.  It isn’t a need for adventure that compels us.  It is a need to reach for the next unreachable goal, only to change that goal once we do inevitably achieve that success.  It seems clear to me that my wife is hardwired to this lifestyle as being a strong Type A personality.  For me, however, it is a bit more puzzling as I am just as deeply rooted on the Type B side.  As layed back as the day is long, I still find myself fighting a demon that insists that we drive ourselves forward at a breakneck pace.

While clearly not the path of the sane, so far our inability to control this monkey on our backs has not caused any permanent fallout and collateral damage in our lives.  An inconvenience here or there, but nothing that I would raise to the level of serious heartburn.  Admitting we have a problem is indeed the first step and it has already begun to drag me out of my funk and back into the light.  Truth is, I know that it won’t be long before we break our current stasis in search of our next fix.  Like a heroin addict “getting well” we will inevitably fold under the pressure of clean living and take a cataclysmic step that turns our world upside down once more.  Resting comfortably in that knowledge like an old pair of slippers allows me to go on about my day.  Laundry, Dishes, Laundry, Dishes, Laundry, Dishes . . . it never freaking ends.  Eventually, however, we will pack up our clothes and the tableware and move on to our next destination . . . it is the way of things.  Having put this matter to rest, I can get back to the trivial matters that fill our days and let you in on one of the more humorous events of the last day or so.  As I had mentioned, we recently acquired a satellite television system out of the UK that plays for the most part English programming.  That being said, I noticed that the British are a fair bit more prudish than the French.  On an occasion, you will run into a Skinamax type feature film, but the editing has clearly been extensive as to prohibit the tainting of young minds.  The age scale is more akin to that in the US as well.  French television rates the appropriate age for full frontal nudity at 16.  It would seem that 12 is the chosen age for what we could call R rated.  The UK system indicates 18 years of age as appropriate for the showing of boobies.  Funny how such as small geographic distance can change ones perspective.  Geographically close, but culturally they are miles and miles apart.  That being said, our new found UK television is not without a shocker or two.

The wife is a sucker for medical programming and enjoys a good reality program when the stars are on the business end of a scalpel.  While enjoying a little “the children are in bed finally” television time, we began surfing through the channels and paused a bit on a program called something like “The world’s most embarrassing bodies”.  Thinking it was going to be about plastic surgery, we tuned it.  The beginning of the program was innocent enough.  A group of real life doctors were set to the task of caravanning across the nation in an effort to address certain medical concerns.  It then took a turn for the  . . . well . . . weird.  We were soon face to face with a  full on vaginal exam followed by a rigorous inspection of a very warty penis.  Now, my wife is not in the least phased by entrails laying all over the surgery room floor, but being a bit more English than French in her modesty she looked away quickly and demanded a channel change.  I myself being a bit more (read as A LOT more) liberal couldn’t help but watch the parade of genital deformities while giggling like a school girl.  When they finally reached a rather plump women with a smelly problem in her nether region, I too had had enough.  I myself was worried less with the odor than I was with the incredible chaffing on the woman’s inner thighs . . . ouch!  Amazing how your perspective changes when not tied down by your sense of smell.  Felt sorry for the doctor though.  Finally gave my wife a break and changed the channel in favor of our new favorite programming . . . The Food Network.  I know, I know, from smelly female parts to food?  I admit it was a difficult transition to make, but the tantalizing programming is enough to make one’s stomach rumble even under the most trying circumstances.

Now, I know that the French are known for being “foodies” and I certainly appreciate a great deal of it, but I cannot say that they have a corner on the market and my western taste buds are aching for a change.  This is perhaps why my wife and I get so lost in the programming about Drive Ins, Diners and Dives as well as the cooking competition called Chopped.  While our recent guests were not particularly big fans of bread and cheese, I will certainly miss them both when our time here is done.  That being said, I can certainly appreciate a heavy desire for a good steak and the comfort foods of home.  Hell, even a well prepared burger would go a long way for me right now.  You mix in a heavy dose of Tex Mex and MSG filled Chinese carry out and you have a recipe for homesickness.  For now, I am content to knaw on my baguette and dream of Christmas with all the home cooked joys that we will certainly injest with vigor and lust.  That is about all I have time for today.  The laundry and dishes aren’t going to do themselves and I have to make it to the supermarket before all the fresh bread has been picked over.  Take Care.  R.