Estrogen
vs Testosterone
I have always considered myself
an average, all around nice guy. My
sisters, on the other hand, claim that while I may have mellowed a little in my
declining years, I was a brat as a kid.
In my defense, I was the only boy in a house full of girls, so I was
trying to survive while living under an estrogen-to-testosterone ratio that
stood at four-to-two. Since my dad was
usually at work, however, the ratio hovered much of the time at four-to-one,
with me being the one. On top of that,
we regularly had at least one grandmother staying with us along with one or
more relatives of the female persuasion so that the real ratio was closer to
six-to-one. Two more sisters were added
to the group about the time I was leaving home, but they didn’t know me in my
youth and so they think that I have always been nice.
My only advantage living under those
trying conditions was that I was the first born of my siblings which gave me
certain privileges, one being the allowance to be a brat. Another was to have had extra time to learn
the fine art of being devious and to have been able to practice while the estrogen
level still stood at a manageable ratio of one to one, meaning me and my mom
who still loved me at the time because I was the only one around. I tell you this in case you hear some of the
unfounded stories that are being spread by my sisters and given substance by
Ann, my wife, who has taken the part of my dearly departed mother and did so to
make certain that the estrogen vs testosterone level didn’t decline.
The first story you might hear has
to do with Bob, the Mathematical
Genius. Their claim is that I
told them I could do any combination of arithmetical calculations in my head as
fast as they could say them to me and I would give them an immediate answer
without the use of a calculator.
So they
would say, “Add one million, two hundred thirty seven thousand, four hundred
eighty three, to four hundred fifty seven thousand, four hundred fourteen. Then divide that answer by thirteen, and then
multiply the whole thing by fourteen million, three hundred eighty seven
thousand, three hundred twenty three.” I
would purse my lips, squint my eyes and say, “The answer is one billion, three
hundred thirteen million, four hundred seventy five thousand, five hundred
fifteen,” and they would marvel at my obvious brilliance and then go away to
think up another combination of numbers in an attempt to trip me up. They were sixty-two before they realized that
I had just been making up the answers.
A second story you might hear has to
do with Bob, the Fish Boy. Their claim in this case is that I told them
I could breathe under water like a fish.
Then I would jump in the pool and submerge myself in water, all the time
holding my breath while I made my chest expand and contract as though I was
breathing in and out. They are still trying
to blame me for putting them in danger on the basis that they might have tried
to emulate their beloved, older brother and drowned themselves. I bet that if they had, they would still be
blaming me, and Ann would have agreed with them.
The unfair part is that I am
seventy-eight years old and they are still calling me Bob the Brat. Ann, reading this over my shoulder, just
yelled, “YEEEESSSSS.”
No comments:
Post a Comment