The wife loves to snuggle like a fat kid loves cake.

I am doing everything within my power to refrain from a second post regarding the decline of our youth, so I will only include a vague reference to fat kids in the title of this entry.  Oh, what the hell, let’s go for it.  Why not, right?  I have offended those with ailing children, so why not piss off those that can’t seem to feed their children anything other than a steady diet of Mc Burgers and the Colonel’s finest.  The interesting thing is that I think many are of the opinion that my last post pertained only to my experience here in France.  The truth of the matter is, most of my commentary comes from my experiences back home.  In an email response from a friend, I recently found out that you could in-fact be allergic to pork.  Until hearing that bombshell I had really only feared two serious physical conditions in my life . . . the colostomy bag and goiters.  Sign me up for both if it means I can avoid the lasting effects of life without BACON.  I joke, but some allergies are serious business, the ramifications of which are deadly.  My eldest has a handful of lads back home that he runs around with that have allergies on the serious side that require the usage of an epi pen upon exposure.  There is nothing more terrifying as a parent than hosting a sleep over and having another parent hand you the pen and provide instructions in the event little Johnny goes into anaphylactic shock.  It is sort of like they just dropped off a ticking time bomb at the house and my luck is such that there will bound to be an explosion on my watch.  So far I haven’t had to juice a kid in the thigh with one of these devices, but my life as a parent of young children ain’t over yet.  Enough about allergies though, let’s return our focus to fat kids.  That too is a pandemic that is all to American in its formulation.  In fact, all those that have visited us from our homeland have been quick to note the difference in waist lines between this society and our own back in the States.  I could go on for hours regarding the difference in the way I was raised and the parenting methods for the youth of today.  I could write about summers spent in the outdoors rather than in front of “The Great Flickering Babysitter”, or how we as a culture are supersizing our way into extinction, but I will take the high road in favor of a different topic.  A topic that is much closer to home.  My children are neither fat nor allergy afflicted, so I will leave well enough alone in hopes that the bitch who calls herself Karma doesn’t catch up with me in the end.  I want to return my focus to something I myself know a fair bit about.  This topic, my friends, is just as serious as anaphylaxis or obesity induced hypertension could ever be.

You see, there are two basic types of people in the world.  Snugglers and Non-Snugglers.  I am in the latter camp, but my wife . . . oh boy . . . my wife is a card carrying member of the former.  This leads to much tension in the Butler household.  There is a big difference in the restorative nature of sleep for the Snugglor and the Snugglee.  The Snugglee spends a sweaty night of discomfort while their partner wheezes a jet stream of hot breath in their face and drowns them in a frothy puddle of coma induced drool.  There is nothing romantic about being treated like someone elses mattress pad.  Somehow the wife believes this to be an affectionate act and has a misguided belief that I too should enjoy the activity.   If you consider canings and ritualistic scarification as affection, then I guess I will play along.  Before you ask . . . No, I don’t have boundary issues, nor am I claustrophobic.  On the other hand, I am not in the habit of seeking out sweaty masses of humanity and would sooner walk 100 flights of stairs than share a crowded elevator with 20 or so smelly strangers.  I don’t enjoy cramped public transit and I would prefer to spread my wings in the nosebleed section rather than be crammed up against the stage at my favorite concert.  There is a crowd surfing story in there that I will one day share which ended in a trip to the emergency room to have my brow stitched back together.  As the Snugglee, I have dreamed of ways to show the Snugglor in my life the error of her ways.  Out of the dark comes my knight in shining armor.  As obese as they come and as smelly as landfill, he is my hero.  The wife finally got to experience life as I know it and I have been free ever since.  The eldest was on a sleepover a night or so back and his usual sleeping partner was looking for a place to land.  He chose to keep my wife and I company on this particular evening.  STUPID DOG.  Rather than wedging himself between us, he chose to assert himself in the real estate just on the opposite side of my bride’s face.  With his rotund body half on and half off of her pillow he “snuggled” his fat mush into the crook of her neck and began is usual night time routine of lip smacking and profuse snoring.  With the cacophony of nasal sounds in her ear and the stream of hot slobber running down her shoulder she didn’t get a wink of sleep.  BRILLIANT DOG.  He snorted and farted his way through the night in a defiant example of what a Snugglor is really all about.  As the Snugglee, the wife didn’t fair so well.  Pinned in a hopelessly uncomfortable head position and unable to move, she was forced to suffer in silence.  This paralysis is not unfamiliar for those that know what it is to live their life as a Snugglee.  The fingers start to tingle under the weight of the others body and soon the entire left side of your body goes numb.  Eventually you are unable to move at all.  Your extremedies . . . dead and useless.  It would be a lie if I said that there weren’t several nights where I seriously envied Aaron Ralston for his possession of the leatherman tool that he eventually used to sever his own arm, there by freeing him from his precarious perch and most certainly saving his own life.  You can’t truly understand the primal instinct for survival till you have been trapped.  It is why wild animals don’t think twice about chewing their own leg off to release themselves from a poachers trap.

Perhaps you think I am being overly dramatic?  Don’t judge me until you have been there yourself.  This evening when you go to bed, try stacking a layer of heavy books down the length of your arm.  Focus a majority of the weight between the shoulder and bicep.  When you wake in the morning, if you have slept at all, go ahead and try to tie your shoes . . . or button your shirt . . . or . . . I can’t go on, the tears are starting to blur my vision.  The truth is, you learn to adapt.  Living life like an amputee for the first half of the day is a small price to pay for freedom, and by dinner time the tips of your fingers will no longer carry that bluish hue.  My wife has finally seen the error of her ways and I have begun my life anew.  Like a new born baby, I greet each morning as though it is my first.  A deep breath of fresh morning air and a long stretch with BOTH arms above my head.  BRILLIANT DOG.  That is all I have for now.  Stay tuned for the next installment coming to a theater near you.  R.