Frankie Rodriquez

It’s really loud. I don’t know whether you can hear it or not, but it is deafening to me. Let me prove it to you.

The other night at the family dinner table I was passing the garlic bread from one person to the next—and it shouted at me! Screamed! Loud! It was trying to do whatever it could to get my attention. Me, I was trying to ignore it. I was trying to pass it on as quickly as possible, like a hot potato. With butter and sour cream, bacon and chives all over it. I wanted nothing to do with the garlic butter and it was trying to do everything it could to spend time on my plate.

I resisted. It hurt my ears, not like ears of corn with melted butter grilled over a charcoal fire and sitting next to a 1.5 inch T-bone steak, but the audio instrument kind of ears. I resisted. You should be proud of me.

I wasn’t as successful the next time. Even though it was a smaller piece of bread, it was exponentially louder than the first. Unbearably loud. I ate it just to shut it up.

Last night at dinner, it was almost embarrassing the noise generated by the dessert tray at dinner at a restaurant with some friends. I couldn’t hear what my wife and our friends were saying because of the blaring cacophony piercing my ears. I need to be better prepared to respond. I need to have a counter-attack planned in advance. I must make better decisions! Because…well, because I ordered the tiramasu and I don’t even like wet cake!

So, today I’m praying for a quiet day. It will make my exercise Taliban…sorry…personal fitness trainer much happier with me.

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