You Know What I Used to Do?

Usually when I say to my wife, “You know what I used to do,” she rolls her eyes and scoffs. She knows I’m about to tell her something beautifully fictitious, like how I played in the NBA before an unfortunate lumberjacking accident lowered my height by nearly a foot, or about the time I was bitten by a shark, but escaped by biting it back, ripping its dorsal fin clean off with nothing but my teeth and a perfectly timed whip of the neck.

So today, when I told her I used to be a rhinestone cowboy, she was skeptically dismissive with a mild dose of curiosity about where the story might lead. As fate may have it, this story happens to be true, and shame on her for questioning its veracity.

As a boy, I would turn on an eight track of Rhinestone Cowboy, slip on an ultra cool pair of leather chaps, fringe and all, slide into the matching vest and climb aboard the wildest stick pony stallion north of the Rio Grande. I was very cool. During football season, I’d even mix it up by wearing a Dallas Cowboy’s helmet.

With football season now upon us, I think it’s about time I find the appropriate attire, YouTube some Glen Campbell, and give the family a show.