Me and My Shadow

Last night after dinner, and prior to Gert’s Princess Party, I felt the need to have something sweet. So, looking over our various choices of gourmet snacks and desserts, I chose a nice Lucky Charms, special chocolate edition. Gertrude chose to partake in the sweet yumminess as well.

I sat eating my cereal and reading the business section of the newspaper. A minute later, Gertrude hops off her chair, walks behind me and returns with a section of the paper. She opens it and props it up against the napkin holder, just like my section. She eats as I eat. She turns the page when I turn the page.

“Dad,” she says, “I’m just like you. I want to be like you. You are my buddy.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” I said, “we have to make some changes. First, you have to develop serious stomach acid issues. Then, you must become passionate about something and then devour it. That something can be music, songwriters, authors, or even particular subjects like physics. Once you have devoured one subject, you must then enter a deep depression because you’ve run out of things to be obsessed about. It’s a vicious cycle.”

“I think I’ll also handle stress very poorly,” she said.

“Excellent idea. Make sure you come up with conspiracy theories and run your close friends out of town, preferably to separate coasts.”

“How come we never watch bike races anymore,” she wanted to know.

“Well, because no one covers any of the races. But, on the 18th, there will be a one-hour highlight show on the Vuelta. Which should be interesting, considering it’s a three week race.”

So, we decided to cut out some pictures out of some cycling magazines. Though I steered her away from a photo of a derailleur and some brakes, she chose some good photos. She went off to take a bath and I told her I’d hang them up next to her other cycling photo.

After bath, she came into her room and saw her new shrine.

“Cool,” she exclaimed, jumping onto the bed to investigate closer.

“Hey,” she said pointing toward Lance’s leg “where’s the . . .”

(Crap, I thought, she’s going to ask for a printout of Roberto Heras’ leg, isn’t she? I knew I shouldn't have shown her that photo . . . )

“. . . Screw thing that holds the other pictures up?”

“You mean the tacks, like in Matida’s room? I just used tape.”

“Oh,” she giggled, “I thought you used your Daddy magic.”

Damn. She’s good. So I bought her a pony.