First, I'd like to submit for your approval the photo on the left (click for a slightly larger picture). I want you to notice, specifically, the youngest man in the photo. He's pasty. His head is too big. He has no hair at all. He's chubby. Although he has a certain youthful cuteness to him, he's not what one might call a hunk.
Now, I want you to notice the older man in the picture. He's young and handsome. He's wearing what were, at the time, stylish clothes: a banded collar shirt and a no-lapel jacket. His hair is fixed in a decade-appropriate style. He looks, despite what my mother and Bob say, nothing at all like Donny Osmond. He's more rugged than that. He's not a super model, but he's a decent looking fellow.
The baby man is my son, River. He was in what we call his "Uncle Fester" stage. He was bald, had no neck and, due to asthma, often had dark circles around his eyes.
The dapper gent is me. I was in my "why the Hell did I think I was ugly? I'd kill to look like this again" stage.
Now I want you to look at the photo at the bottom right (click for a larger view). He's gotten considerably more handsome. Hair? Check. Ruddy skin color? Check. Thin and fit? Check. That's great. I'm glad for him, I really am.
My complaint is this: you should see me! I'm in terrible shape. I'm getting less and less handsome every year, and putting on weight. My hair is turning grey. My skin is pastier than it's ever been. I'm a mess!
I guess what I'm saying is this: I think my son is one of those vampire creatures from the movies that sucks the life out of you until they are strong and beautiful and you are a desiccated shell of your former self. I'm not sure what to do about this. Maybe I should buy a silver crucifix.
Later. Love.
