Concerning Hobbits (or “The Nose Knows”)

Though I’ve never really had issues in this vein, I’m not feeling entirely comfortable in my body right now.  That is to say, after two weeks of corporate travel, I’m not feeling entirely comfortable in my pants right now.  However much pain the life of the road warrior may inflict, it appears to be a well nourished ache.

The full extent of my physical activity over the past two weeks has been to sit in an underground conference room for twelve hour stretches and eat food being brought in by facility caterers.  It was a lot like I imagine the life of a hobbit to be; only plus some facility caterers here and minus some orcs there…  And here’s breakfast.  And here’s second breakfast.  And here’s an elevensie snack of fruit and cheese.  And here’s a nice hot lunch.  And here’s…

Now that I’ve resumed my ambulatory ways I expect my tummy to trend back to its standard issue 32″ of it’s own accord, but the temporarily tight suits have gotten me unusually focused on my physical appearance and that’s not good.  Because, while sorting pictures from my recent trip to Scotland, I’ve noticed my nose is getting huge.

I mean, “fear my nose” huge.  You can check the photo to the right for yourself.  As in, there will be entire civilizations in the far distant future desperately seeking time travel so they can voyage backward through the fifth dimension and stop the monster my nose will some day become.  I’m considering pitching a Series 8 script to the Doctor Who writing team about it.

The increase was so incremental I didn’t realize it until just now.  It snuck up on me, a few angstroms up to a few nanometers, then on to Gandalf the Grey.    One of my sisters frequently claims a similar creeping up regarding her weight.  I just don’t see it though.  Separated by geography and the cultural schism of the Deep South versus Acadia, we once went six months without seeing one another in person.  Every time we spoke on the phone during that period she claimed she had put on still more weight.  The next time I saw her, I expected her to look like the Musuko-Godzilla suit — all neck and paunch, with stubby little arms.  But really, she looked the same to me.

I on the other hand have tangible proof.  When I lay out a series photos of myself in sequence over the last twenty years, you can actually see the progression.  Like glacial movements speeded up from a time lapse sequence of still frames on the National Geographic Channel.  As I look over the photos, I imagine this as a documentary, narrated by Carol Meier.

What’s particularly distressing is that I’ve being told your nose never actually stops growing and the idea of thirty-years down the road is giving me shivers.   It’s a tough one to work through; this vision of me as Cyrano de Bergerac without the rapier.

I’ve high hopes I’ll adapt through.  Though I had a good long run at “cute,” I missed the turn to handsome by a block or two.   I can say with certainty, and with no feeling of ill will, that in my youth I was always the least attractive member of my family — lucky me, the smart one — so I’ve been there before.

What’s actually more distressing is the ears don’t seem to be growing to match; I feel like they aren’t carrying their weight.  I’m worried that my center of gravity will slowly shift to the front, and over I’ll fall, a new career as a truffle hunter.   The hobbits would have some use for me then, I’ll bet.


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