The Sporting Life

So here's the residual from one of Thumper and my afternoon jousts. An elegant victory on her part that speaks to her ability to plan, strategize and execute.

If I had been paying attention I would not only have seen her bishop sidling up to my king in the drunken diagonal way bishops tend to sidle, both on the field of battle and off, but I also would have seen her placing metaphoric pawns, rooks and knights in my corner these last three years that will surely some time have me in checkmate.

I believe that will be next week.

There's the danger in dating. It's an evolutionary process and designed to go somewhere. Boys, if you like to tread water, you'd better get out of the dating lake real soon. There's one hell of an undercurrent designed to suck better men down to the depths, pull them to the dam that holds the whole thing up and the next thing you know you're below the rapids somewhere in a mall holding a woman's purse.

Look for the octavial signals. Women, gathering in gaggles, tend to raise their collective voices in volume and pitch when good and exciting things happen such as engagements, pregnancies, weddings and the like. While professional achievements garner warm hugs and offers of congratulation, those wishes are delivered in a level tone of voice. Not so personal milestones. Flash a glittery rock and squeals of pleasure inevitably result, frightening the hell out of any man or men in hearing distance. The understanding among us is, yes, somehow somewhere one of our pack has fallen. We mourn, we toast the lad and then we hand him the purse and send him on his way.

Not that getting my purse was entirely her idea, I admit having had some part in the matter. But my chess game was, well, like my chess game. I happened into it, she made a mistake and I capitalized on the opportunity. That said, it was messy as hell.

We play chess every Sunday afternoon. Her victories are elegant. Mine are a mess. Chasing king all over the freaking board with what little I have left, usually a pawn, a knight and a rook who have met in a smoldering foxhole, looked each other in the eye and said "old general disorder has slaughtered his own forces again, what say we make a break for the other side?" And by chance sometimes they make it into old opposing king's camp looking for the beef soup they serve POW's only to corner the poor regent.

Which is about where we are.

Either I've stumbled into the field kitchen and found Sire supping evening stew whereupon I make him my captive and, by the way, did I hear a rumor you had a daughter?

Or the various traps and pitfalls she's engineered these last years have all sprung simultaneously and the whole thing looks like some Merlot-drenched last move in a giant game of Mousetrap. I can't decide. Either way.

Game over.

Bunny on.