Sure Things

Some things are inevitable.


Given.


Definite.


Gonna Happen.


The following are sure things.

Please don't say I didn't warn you.

Sure Thing #1

If you have been in desperate need of a haircut for three weeks,
and your bangs hanging down in your eyes
have made you so miserable
that 
you have
no less than three times
taken it upon yourself
to
cut them,
with scissors
not meant for haircutting.

Without wearing your glasses.

If you have endured
the appearance
of the awful,
bizarre
cowlick
that only appears
on the right side of your
head
when
your hair is too long
and touches your shoulder,
(because your neck is unnaturally short)
and you have looked
asymmetrical,
scary,
and somewhat
crazed
for days,

And have FINALLY
scored an appointment
for a haircut
which you will actually
be able to get to
unlike the appointment
that you
tragically
missed
last week
because of a
horribly, horribly,
long meeting,

I guarantee you that the following will happen immediately before the haircut appointment:

No fewer than 6 people will comment on how great your hair looks,
and that they really like it that length,
not
shorter.

Sure Thing #2

If you feel
really, really  bad
about the three
five
days in a row
that you
haven't
prepared
a decent meal

for The Chief,

and you spend
hour
upon
hour
hunting for
fresh meat
with a spear,

growing your
own
organic,
heirloom
tomatoes
which you crush
with your
own hands into
a delicate tomato sauce
seasoned with the herbs that
you lovingly transplanted from your former home...

If you make
fresh,
homemade pasta
with your bare hands
using the secret recipe that you
begged from a chef
who spoke a language
that you didn't,
and you
aspirated an
unhealthy amount of
flour
in the whole process,

I  personally guarantee you that the following will happen:

The Chief will come home and announce
that he was taken to lunch
by a salesman
and
stuffed himself on
really, really,
good

Italian food

and couldn't possibly

eat
another
bite.



And Finally

Sure Thing #3

If you have gone on and on
at dinner
about how good you've been on your
diet,
and how you've eaten nothing but salad
for lunch
for the past
21 days,
and how the thought of more lettuce
makes you want to
just gnaw
your own leg off,
and
How you can't understand
for the life of you
why your
Hips
are still so
unbelievably,
unattractively,
unnaturally
wide
after all the walking and
By Golly
Running that you do each evening,
and
The Chief
has
nodded
sympathetically,

and then later that night you just
finally
have an emotional,
psychological,
theological,
and
frankly
complete and total
meltdown,

Wherein
 you find yourself,
(after The Chief has already gone to bed,)
in the kitchen
simultaneously
eating
Blue Bell Rocky Road
out of the carton
with a fork
and
Nutella
out of the jar
with your finger,

I propose that the following will definitely, without a doubt, happen.

The Chief will
inexplicably
come out of the bedroom
(where he has been sound asleep for over an hour)
and announce that he needs to check
to see if his
truck
is locked,

passing through the kitchen,
on his way to the garage
and therefore,
seeing
you.

Eating.

Everything.

And he will,
once again,
nod

sympathetically.


I rest my case.