This morning, on my way to brunch, I listened to A Prairie Home Companion in the car. And the skit I heard was of two Christmas trees confronting their imminent mortality and resolving to live for now. They could feel the life-force slowly receding from their trunks as they leaned against each other on 43rd Street, and they lamented their destiny to die in the gutter and be mulched into oblivion. But they knew they'd go out in style, as a decorated protector of some family's Christmas presents. (At least, that was the male tree's opening line. Which worked like a charm.)
After we were seated in the restaurant, I learned that one of the men at the table was recovering from two surgeries after his system was attacked by a staph infection that came out of nowhere. The only symptom was a pimple-sized welt on his leg that grew to six inches in diameter in four hours, and his doctor said that had he not taken himself to the ER right then, they might not have caught it in time. It was either aerobic or anaerobic, could have come from without or within.
After eight days in the hospital, this was his first meal as a free man. And he ordered about 1,000 calories' worth of Eggs Benedict. And ate every bite with the relish of a man whose body almost ate itself.
This was a tough day to process all this, since after a particularly festive Christmas party last night, my aging body has had a tougher time recovering from the (decidedly reduced) excess. It helped, though, when Moxie texted me a picture of TwoBert's letter to Santa, in which he said all he wants for Christmas is "a kiss from a pretty girl under the mistletoe."
I can suggest an opening line that might make that wish come true.
