My Uncle Chuck—one of my mother’s brothers—when he was a young man, married a woman named Sylvia. Got a tattoo to prove it, too.
Problem was, he and she divorced, and away she went. But the now-superfluous tattoo stayed, taking up valuable skin space. The obvious solution?
You guessed it. Find a new Sylvia.
He did and they wed.
It was Uncle Chuck’s and Aunt Sylvia’s turn to host Thanksgiving. We all sat watching the Lions maul themselves while carefully avoiding scratching the other team, but the horror passed.
It was about four when Aunt Sylvia went to the freezer and pulled the bird from the freezer and plopped it on the counter. She asked, genuinely, “How long do you think it will take to cook this?”
We had Chinese.
Another time, my Aunt Ona (mother’s sister) was visiting for a few days. She was in the process of her morning toilet, and as she sat there she realized, to her dismay, that there was no paper. She called out, “Sylvia! Can you get me some more toilet paper!”
Aunt Sylvia said, “Sure.”
Aunt Ona heard Sylvia’s hurried footsteps, the front door open and close, then the car start and pull out.
The moral of our story: When you constrict yourself with certain limitations, you have to be willing to enjoy the consequences.
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!