Catfish and Cod
I’ve been in a number of relationships over the course of my 28 years—about 10 of which have been spent inside the confines of a romantic affair. During the course of such things, I’ve been called by many terms of endearment and been described in many ways. Before K.L. I would describe most of these as traditional. There was honey and dear and even darling from time to time. I was cute and I was a dork. I was a lot of things, some so dripping with sap it makes me sick to think about them. Even the worst of those were still variations on what most people would consider typical.
The rules have changed.
Once I was sweetie and now I am… catfish. That’s right, catfish. Why? Apparently, when I lay down, I’m like a catfish at the bottom of a river or a lake or something similar. That is, of course, unless I’m laying on top of K.L. in some manner at which time I become “like a cod” instead since codfish swim higher than catfish typically do. My back is like a fish fillet or something like that. I don’t really know since I make little attempt to make sense of K.L.’s statements on this subject.
The fun doesn’t stop there. Various parts of my body have their own comparisons that have nothing to do with anything fishy. In fact, it’s generally poultry of some sort. My hands are like chicken wings as are my arms as a whole. My finger tips escape the chicken theme and are regarded as grapes. I also seem to have a pair of turkey legs too. There was also one occasion where I was described as looking like a cow when I had my head looking over a pillow at her.
This isn’t normal. This isn’t to say I’m in search of normal but K.L., as always, insists that anything she does is typical and that there are probably many other people out there that share in her particular eccentricities. There aren’t, and I mean to say that definitively.