Archive for June, 2007

Don’t Catch It!

Tuesday, June 12th, 2007

It was a rare moment. A rare moment where it was not my birthday, but the attention was focused on me. Focused on my hands, to be exact.

“.. and see, I have a freckle at the exact same spot on the back of both hands.” My husband was inspecting the backs of my hands.

“Hey! You’re right!” he exclaimed with interest. After 13 years of marriage it was fun to grab the full attention of my spouse. The sound of his voice quickened with interest, the intent gaze of his eyes on my hands reminded me of a little boy engrossed in weird stuff like bugs, dirt and stuff.

“And on the inside of my palms, at the same spot, there’s the indented marks.” I continued blabbering happily as I flipped my hands palms up.

“Weird!” My husband declared. He glanced at my face with interest, then reached out to grasp my hands for further study. I was really enjoying the attention. A little devil in me wanted to prolong the moment.

“I have to be careful that I don’t catch stigmata,” I pronounce seriously, trying to keep my lips from quirking.

There’s an interesting phenomenon, which is often used by politicians. If you can get someone to agree with you twice, they’ll usually fall in and agree with you on the third statement, no matter how outrageous the claim. My husband, who was seeing the evidence for himself, nodded his head in agreement.

I had no doubt that my husband would catch me in my fib. He’s a very smart man. It would just take a moment for rationality to force its way through the weirdness in front of his eyes. However it was my 26-year-old son, who had just walked in, that immediately caught me in my bold assertion.

“You’re going to catch stigmata?” he challenged me.

Still trying to keep a straight face, I replied for my husband’s benefit, “Yes, I could.”

My son looked at my straining face, then drawled sarcastically, “Well, yeah, Mom, I suppose you could catch stigmata if you were to fall outside on a couple of stakes with your hands outstretched.”

I burst out laughing.

“Hey!” my husband exclaimed again as realization hits him.

My son continued on relentlessly, doubling me up with laughter.

“And then,” he said, “As you scramble up, you could end up stomping your foot on an upturned rake. And when you manage to get your foot off the rake, you could spin around and stomp your other foot on the same rake. Then, while trying to reach a phone, as you crawl to the house in agony, you could end up crawling by the rose bushes and you could scratch your forehead bloody.”

Son paused and took a breath.

“Yeah,” he concluded. “I can see how you could catch stigmata. But try not to catch it, ok?”