Hosting Christmas While Grinding Molars

Hello word allies. This morning, I write to you as I glide on my stationary recumbent bike (because that’s part of my physical therapy regimen.) The time exhausted as the sun ascends each day on this bike, I pass likewise, by developing my thumb muscles, clicking away as I pedal. At the hour’s conclusion, I find I am where I started, but sweaty, and every so often I have composed a post.

Imagine where I would be in an hour, a week, a month, if this bike moved, and I set off in a straight line, in the style of Forrest Gump. Naturally, unwanted arm-pit hair would make a return appearance, eyebrows would reunite, forming a unibrow once again. It’s a love story, really, yet to be written: Over plucked brows separated during adolescence live a lonely life until the brain inside the face goes on an excursion. (I call copyrights!)

My chin, perhaps, would sprout just enough hairs for me to macrame a thin rope, twisting it through random nose icicles, to create a wind-chime. My chi would flow as I rode, and I would be the embodiment of feng shui.

If this was a real bike, given the current political climate, I would ride north. Bundled in warm winter garb, I’d lean into the wind and dare her to pick me up and take me… to Canada? My daydreams of Justin Trudeau would act to sustain my body temperature.

Time is up, and I can’t dawdle to make this mean anything profound. Why break precedent now?

Anyway… I’m the host today, and it’s showtime. I will now create inedible food for my guests to choke down as we drink enough wine to kill our taste buds.

Happy Holidays, yes, all of them, and may your meals be more edible than mine.