Now that MiniMe is all grown up – she graduated college and has been flopping at my house nearly every night since returning from Europe – a bunch of her family got together to celebrate. We decided to bring back an old tradition and dine at one of the fine local Italian chain restaurants.
They sat our party of 14 upstairs in a corner and the tables were set up such that the first people seated had to crawl up and out of the sitting area if they needed to use the loo. By ‘the first people,’ I mean me, in my sling, doing my thing.
Seated across from me was Beaner and her family. Seated next to me was MiniMe’s dad. Being that the party was large and the table was long, there were several conversations taking place – my conversations were primarily with Beaner and MiniMe’s dad.
At one point in the evening, after several drinks, I safely slid across the back wall and down the stairs to the loo and, when I returned, decided to take my arm out of the sling for a bit – people may dig scars, but nobody finds atrophy sexy.
While my arm was out, I was doing some of the range of motion exercises taught to me at physical therapy. A few minutes later I was rubbing my upper chest. “It feels like someone else is touching me,” I told Beaner. “Real nice,” MiniMe said and then gestured toward her dad. “Oh he knows, honey. How do you think you got here? Everyone, even me and my foreign arm, likes touching me. ”
Was that an overshare? Maybe, but I was ‘feeling’ generous. I’ve got my arm – lame or not; I’ve got a college graduate; and I’ve got yummy mizithra brown buttered pasta. “I don’t typically eat pasta in public,” I advised Beaner and those in close proximity (i.e., MiniMe’s dad), but considering what you just witnessed, I’m gonna give it a go.” “That’s a lot of noodle for your mouth,” Beaner quipped. Oh, he knows…..