For 90 days or so, I had religiously attended a daily routine of exercise at the Downtown YMCA in Little Rock. It was 1975 and the first time I had followed a healthy pattern of living since Navy Boot Camp. A wonderful fitness expert and trainer named Ersel Tillery was guiding me and I was making progress. You betcha.

At my 90-day checkup, Ersel and I were thrilled. My readings were fast approaching those of a 50-year old man, down from the early 70s when I had started. I had lost fifteen pounds or so, and you could see the vestiges of my chin again. Along the way, I had noticed my pants getting loose around the waist. I had even bought a pair a size smaller.

I was walk/jogging around the little 30-lap track for nearly a half-mile a day now. I was “born-again.” I had started projects around our old Victorian Home. I was on my way.

Then, I hit a bump on the highway to perfect health.

Getting ready for work one day, I chose an old pair of pants, the loose ones. I liked to wear them to work because I sensed that it made the other guys jealous.

Guess what? The pants weren’t loose at all. In fact, they were snug as could be. What happened? I re-traced my steps. I hadn’t been on a wild spree. I hadn’t missed a day exercising. I had even started walking on Sundays. There was no reason for bloating. Jeeez!

After donning some warmups, I trudged into the kitchen where my Trophy Wife (yeah, it’s easier just to marry one right off) was enjoying a bowl of cereal. I made me one and sat. I didn’t feel like talking.

“How are your pants fitting?” She smiled and spooned some cereal.

What the …? Now here was a nice philosophical problem. A Kantian Moral Imperative would demand that I tell the truth. A sense of “Pascal's Wager” would suggest that I take the route offering the least chance of future disaster. I discarded both and used my old standby that I call “The Lie of French Impressionism.” That is to tell two truths and let the listener mix them as the listener wishes. If the result is misleading, the fault lies with the listener.

“I’ll try them on in a bit,” I said. “You can’t expect overnight results.” I squirmed.

She nodded in that quixotic way she has of proclaiming a non-verbal “Bullshit.”

“I just wondered,” she said, “since I took them up two inches.”

Have I ever mentioned that she is a first-class seamstress? She smiled in that quixotic way she has of proclaiming, “Ha. Gotcha, you old fool.”

Would you like to hear about how I practically skipped into work that morning? At the noon exercise class, Ersel even found the episode funny. Brenda? After all these years, she still delights in telling the story. Did I ever mentioned that she has a bit of mean streak about her at times? I love her anyway.

Did I ever tell you how much
I like to mess with his mind?