Groom just turned thirty-seven.
We gave him a unicycle.
He should never have said, offhandedly, as he bit into a piece of watermelon this summer, “By the time I’m forty, I want to be able to ride a unicycle.”
‘Cause then we gave him one.
And now he has to master the sucker.
Thus, Groom’s birthday saw him down in our dungeon, learning how to mount the thing (and, yes, we keep the house cold enough that indoor hat-wearing is called for; stop being such a wussy guest and hat-up already). Balance will come later. Even one day in to his training, he already maintains it will give him a core workout to rival the pilates class taught by the Ab Nazi at our gym.
Since I can’t have them myself, due to the chocolate-worshipping tenet of my religion, I do so appreciate rock-hard abs in others. When the census-taking ab-checkers come to our door next year, Groom’s unicycle-hardened belly will earn their respect. Just to get them to put X’s in all the right boxes, I’m willing to intensify the display and eat a smidgeon of lentil soup out of his belly button. Just ’cause I can. Those ab-census-takers will get an afternoon of entertainment beyond all dreams when they hit Unicycle House.
The unicycle is, indeed, a gift that will keep on giving.
The Wee Niblet can’t wait until Pappy can juggle flaming torches on the unicycle. Girl can’t wait to play tag with him and be chased by Unicycle It. I can’t wait to see him make stir-fry on the roll.
Face it: we are circus folk.
P.S. Stop coveting our orange shag carpet. Your desire is unattractive.
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