Deep Shit

CHIP OF WISDOM:

Proverbs 18, Verse 4

"A wise man's words express deep streams of thought."

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CHIPPED WISDOM:

Sometimes I wear silly socks because, sometimes, I wake up feeling silly.  There are pretty much two ways for men to go as far as socks are concerned: boring and outrageous.  There's very little in between, unless you consider argyle to be a sort of footwear middle ground.  I like argyle, but I still think argyle socks are boring, unless they're pink and green and yellow and then they're really just for Easter or the golf course. 

Or both.

I don't know when I started wearing silly socks.  I know I didn't wear them in high school-- I was way too insecure-- and it wasn't in college either.  In college, earth tones were my close friends, and I didn't deviate from the brown family too much when it came to clothes.  Or food, for that matter.  Have you ever noticed how comforting brown food is?  Look at your Thanksgiving spread tonight and count how many foods are brown.  You'll think to yourself, "Wow-- that guy's into some really deep shit!"

Or not.

I love to wear silly socks because, by and large, when you cross your legs and people see them, they smile.  I don't especially go out of my way to receive attention, in fact, I'd much prefer to hide under a blanket for the rest of my life, provided it was the right blanket and someone brought me a steady stream of brown food to keep me from expiring and losing weight I can't afford to part company with, but I do like it when people smile.  And when they laugh.  Silly socks aren't going to make anyone slap their knee or piss their pants, but a smile's good.  Smiles are good.  I like your smile.  You have a good smile.  Don't believe me?  Go run into the bathroom for a minute and check yourself out in the mirror.

I'll wait till you get back.

.............................................................................................

See?  I'm still here.

My wife's smile is the best.  Her eyes light up and the skin around them creases in all the right ways and she shows her beautiful teeth.  She has lots of different kinds of smiles.  I like the smiles she gives me when I'm being bad.  Deliberately bad.  Obscene or inflammatory, uncouth and ribald.  The smile that says, "I shouldn't be feeding into this behavior, but I can't help it."  

I love those smiles.  And I love to be bad.  Always have, at least, ever since I learned how to be bad.  I don't know where I learned it from.  Probably television.  Kids are always learning shit from television.  And Grand Theft Auto.

She claims that her smile is deformed-- from her brain surgery.  That happened almost ten years ago.  For a while, it was noticeable, one side turned down, but, if it's still that way and I don't think it is, I guess I just don't notice it anymore.  I don't see it.  Maybe because I don't want to see it, or perhaps because I'm not looking for it.  Why would I?  

If anyone's smile is deformed, it's mine.  I have a denticular disability-- I can't show my teeth when I smile.  Or, "won't" is probably more accurate.  My smile is thin-lipped and sad, slightly pained, thoughtful, wistful, almost coming out against itself, in spite of itself.  It's there, but it's rare.  There's a lot going on with it, and behind it.  But the smile is a good cover.  Just like my socks-- they hide feet that are flat as a desk top, nails that are thick, yellowed and cracked, and an odor that, as the day wears on is reminiscent of a hoagie left out in the Arizona sun for about a week.  Silly socks.  They're good to have around.  They're my smile.  And they're more for you than for me.  

Happy Thanksgiving.  I love you.