Here’s a topic that’s not completely ubiquitous this week.
I don’t how or exactly when it happened, but I started having a passionate love/terror-inducing affair. With sharks. Because I am a 12-year old boy at heart (and cleavage and fashion sense), it’s right up there with my fascination with dinosaurs. In case you’re not buying this, here is what I received as a bridesmaid gift from my first friend at FSU/favorite Seattlean:
Though he’s a tad bruised and chipped from our gypsy life, he will eternally adorn whatever space serves as my office. For ever and ever for all of time because he is that awesome and that is why I never have to wonder if my friends “get” me.
Where was I? Right. Sharks.
I’m going to use a word here that might result in you breaking up with me via text message: majestic. That’s just how it is, kids. Sharks are freaking majestic.
It’s so crazy to me that they’re just out there, swimming around in the middle of the ocean, all massive and predatory, all the time, swimming around, killing stuff, eating stuff, sleeping. All the time. Right out there in the water. It freaks my freak, obvi.
My husband will tell you the last thing I need in my life is visual evidence feeding yet another of my irrational fears. I will tell him to zip it or I’m pulling this Shark Week over right now, mister.
And, actually, if you caught the Shark Week kick-off this week, they’re NOT out in the middle of the ocean. They’re about six inches from the coast, apparently. Terrifying, no? So, so deliciously terrifying.
If it looks like I was at the gym for two hours and didn’t have time to shower before the show started it’s because that’s exactly what happened.
It must go without saying, then, that Shark Week is my fifth favorite week of the year. Right under my two birthday weeks, Clayton’s birthday week and that one week of the year Clayton actually agrees to take off work for an actual vacation, which lets us stand eerily close to the natural habitat of those majestic kings of the water while taking really odd, awkward pictures together. Meet the model and the confused, deaf girl who look like they’re on a bad first date.
I really hope you’re watching all the madness on the Discovery Channel every weeknight at 9 p.m. (They didn’t pay me for that. But they should have.) That way you’d understand why this post is absolute crap because I’m simultaneously coming up with excuses to keep me out of the ocean for the next 60 years of my life while Googling where I can get a pet Great White for the spare bathroom. And also snapping my fingers in front of that picture to see if I can get my attention.