I have some ideas for longer posts I plan to write, but they’ll have to wait until I return from the low-carb cruise. I’m not giving a speech on this year’s cruise, but I will be showing what I hope is the final version of the Fat Head Kids film. I just finished the final task – mixing the sound – last night. Chareva and I will watch the whole thing a couple of times over the weekend and make notes on any final tweaks. When we’re happy with it, I’ll probably upload a couple of preview clips to YouTube.
I have other pre-cruise stuff to wrap up as well, so I may or may not squeeze in one more post before leaving. The Older Brother has already agreed to take over the Fat Head chair while I’m gone.
In the meantime, I felt I should warn you all that I could turn stupid any day now. I was informed of the possibility years ago by buddies who got married and had kids at a much younger age than I did. Prepare yourself, they said. When a daughter becomes a teenager, her dad goes from being one of the smartest men on the planet to one of dumbest.
My daughter Alana turns 13 today, so I’m at serious risk of seeing my intelligence take a nosedive.
I dodged that bullet when Sara turned 13. I warned her that I might become stupid when she entered her teens, just in case. She thought about it and replied, “I don’t think it’s possible for me to ever think of you as stupid. But I reserve the right to think you’re old and just don’t get it.”
My intelligence was probably protected in her case because we think so much alike. As Chareva has pointed out many times, Sara inherited my love of language, my appreciation for math and logic, my ability to memorize, my sense of humor, and many of my likes and dislikes. So if I turned stupid, it would reflect badly on her.
Alana is much more like Chareva. She inherited her mom’s artistic abilities, to name just one example. She already draws amazingly well.
Chareva has never thought of me as stupid as far as I know, but then she never knew me during her teen years. When she was 13, I was 27. She probably would have considered me stupid at the time. I didn’t have a low IQ or anything, but when I look back at the decisions I made at that age, there was some form of stupidity at work.
Anyway, the point is that Alana and I are different enough that I could turn stupid without posing any threat to her own sense of self-worth. I’m unprotected this time around.
If I do turn stupid, I hope some of you fine folks will set aside social niceties and call me on it. I’d want to know. In fact, do me a favor and keep an eye out for the warning signs:
If I ever slam a t-post hammer onto my own skull again, I may have gotten stupid.
If ever get stung on the arm again and assume that mysterious red patch spreading from the wound will just go away on its own, I’ve likely gotten stupid.
If our chickens ever start disappearing again from a chicken yard that’s been reinforced every which way and I don’t immediately conclude this means the predator is living inside the chicken yard, I’ve probably gotten stupid.
If I ever again try to lift a bridge that weighs more than I do without using my legs while spending a weekend doing heavy farm work despite a mysterious pain in my shoulder, I’ve almost certainly gotten stupid.
Okay, that should do it. No, wait … one more:
If I conclude that humans should live on a diet of 63 servings of fruits and vegetables per day because it’s the equivalent of gorilla’s diet and lowers cholesterol, I’ve most definitely gotten stupid. But no point warning me in that case, because it means I’ve given up blogging to join the faculty at an Ivy-League university nutrition department.
Now I need to get home for Alana’s birthday. I hope I don’t turn stupid on the way and forget where we live.
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