Long is the short of it

Saturday 11:30 a.m. Emily and I are in rural Minnesota visiting her family. We all go out to bowl, something I’ve been referring to all morning as “playing bowling.” I haven’t played bowling in years and while I’m terrible at it, I do enjoy the atmosphere of the bowling alley – the smell of fried food, the sound of crashing pins, the fact that a bowling ball, with its 3 holes, looks like an open-mouthed face crying out in pain. Perhaps Edvard Munch had just been bowling before painting The Scream. I cannot imagine Munch was any better a bowler than I am.

12:10 p.m. At the snack counter, I overhear someone referring to their hotdog as “delish.” Why is “delish” – to my mind an unpalatable word – short for delicious, yet “deli” – a wonderful word – is short for delicatessen? In general, I’m not big on diminutives of any kind. I’m still getting used to “veggies.” Every time I’m asked if I want them, I feel like a twoyear-old about to be spoon fed. Are people in such a hurry that they can’t afford the time for an extra couple of syllables? Maybe those additional phonemes add up over time and these “veggie” people live more life than I do. But what is such a life actually worth? I order a taco and when the counterman asks if I’d like some “guac” on it, I nod my head with sadness.

3 p.m. While out jogging, drivers wave as they pass me by. At first I thought they were gesturing rudely or trying to indicate some kind of danger ahead. “Can you imagine what our city would be like if drivers waved to every pedestrian who passed them?” I ask Emily. The streets would look like the detritus left over after a monster truck rally. But I enjoy it. I wave and nod and generally feel folksy until a car, with an uncharacteristically un-waving driver pulls to the side of the road and, without slowing down, drives right towards me. When it feels as though I’m about to be hit, I jump out of the way. The car stops and I approach the driver’s window.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

The driver points to the mail in his hand. He then extends the batch out the window and into the mail box beside me.

“Oh,” I say, “You’re delivering the mail.” “No duh,” he says. “No duh,” it should be noted, is short for “Obviously, you dummy.” I hope the time he saved is put to good use. I also hope he doesn’t look into his rearview mirror and see my “special wave.”