*Hi Loves,
This is a post from Christmas past. I think it was way back in a simpler time — 2013.
Anyhow…it’s a crowd favorite, the number one most requested holiday post and you guys really know how to pick ’em because I love this one too! After all, it’s about my husband and everybody roots for my hubby. Right? I mean, he tolerates me and that is no. small. feat.
Listen, he’s no saint, believe you me. He’s a procrastinator extraordinaire as this story will reveal, and a curmudgeony rapscallion of epic proportions. HOWEVER, all that being said, the man never ceases to amaze me with his common decency.
And here on Earth 2.0 I miss common decency. I think we all do.
So here’s a dollop of decency courtesy of my own personal Avatar. I’m immensely grateful for him and for all of you for your decency and continued loyalty.
Wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays and an amazing 2020!
xox Janet
AVATAR
av·a·tar
ˈavəˌtär/
noun
1.HINDUISM
a manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth; an incarnate divine teacher.
I met my husband when he was 47 and I was 43.
To say I kissed a lot of frogs along the way is understating the obvious!
And since he’s French there’s also a certain irony there.
On paper, I looked über normal.
I had a great job, a house, a relatively “normal” family, lots of good friends, two Siamese cats, and a Partridge in a pear tree.
But as you all know by now, I had my dark, hidden secret.
I was a closeted seeker.
Devoutly spiritual.
I did yoga,
I meditated twice a day,
I could have been a monk.
Well, except for the red lipstick and nail polish…oh, and there’s the sex. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I blurted it all out after a glass (or three) of wine on one of our early dates, half expecting him to excuse himself, saying he was “going to the restroom”, only to discover after ordering dessert and eating it by myself—that he had made a run for it!
But he didn’t.
It ends up he was a seeker as well, having worked with
a Peruvian shaman along the way—so I should have seen this next part coming…
For years, I had sought the counsel of a channel, a friend who had the ability to call in “beings” of higher wisdom. So, I invited her/them over to “meet” my new husband. I’m not exactly sure what I expected, but what they did was to just, well, so perverse. Let’s just say they completely ignored me and practically fell all over themselves (in that way nebulous mist can) calling him “Great Avatar”.
Then they explained that I am the “consort” to this great being.
What? Really?
Like the Cleopatra to his Marc Anthony?
Uh, no. You can’t be serious! It’s nothing like that!
More like the Robin to his Batman, maybe. OR…
The Abbott to his Costello.
The Kato to his Green Hornet.
The Elaine to his Jerry.
The Heckle to his Jeckle.
Well, not exactly. I had to acquiesce to the undeniable fact that, gulp,
He is my teacher, and I am grasshopper.
I just rolled my eyes, thinking that infinite wisdom must have mistakenly ‘Avatared’ the wrong guy—but the irrefutable proof of it happened again—for the gazillionth time on Christmas Eve.
He told me the story with tears in his eyes that night on our way to dinner.
He is a typical man in the sense that he waits until 3 p.m. on the 24th of December to start his holiday shopping.
So…there he was driving while famished, navigating an overcrowded parking lot with nothing to sustain him except the remnants of a candy cane covered in pocket lint.
He was Hangry (hungry + angry).
You get the picture.
Finally, after circling eight-thousand times, he saw a car ready to pull out of its space so he positioned himself, left blinker on, and waited…and waited…while the lovely person, 175 year old woman who should have NEVER been driving in the first place, backed ever so sloooooowwwly took her ever-loving, f*c@ing time, to vacate the coveted spot. Meanwhile, on the other side of her was a little pickup truck that has the same idea. My husband, seeing what was about to happen, aggressively blocked the spot with his black Porsche and pulled in. (Don’t judge, just because it’s a Porsche and a pickup truck, just don’t do it!)
As the pickup truck realized defeat and drove off, the driver made eye contact with my husband—and flipped him the middle finger.
Oh, don’t worry, that stuff rolls off his back…he’s French, remember?
But still, it was Christmas Eve for cryin’ out loud!
No matter. He walked into a local joint to grab a quick burger and realized while he was eating, that middle-finger-pickup-truck-guy was eating with some of his buddies a few tables over.
So, instead of pounding his chest or letting his smug get the better of him, he got out a pen and wrote a note on a napkin.
He then attached $20 and handed it to the waitress to deliver to the guy…and without saying a word—he left.
The note read:
Even though you flipped me the bird,
It’s Christmas Eve.
your lunch is on me.
The black Porsche.
While walking away he glanced back to see the guy showing the note to his buddies as he stood to search the cafe for this mystery Santa.
So freakin’ decent, right? It brought tears to my eyes you guys!
He’s my hero.
He’s my teacher
He really is an Avatar.
(And said without any eye roll whatsoever) It is an honor to be his consort/grasshopper.
Merry Christmas everybody!
Xox
