Compact: (n) something that is a small and conveniently shaped

“I had no business…”

I can recite a litany of mistakes I’ve made, all of which could begin with that phrase: “I had no business.”

In other words, if I sat and thought about it for five minutes, some conscious part of me would have raised a loud objection, or even screamed at me to avoid such a foolish path.

One of these occasions in my life–when “I had no business”–was when I bought a Ford Fiesta Ghia.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

It’s what they call “a compact car.”

It is adorable if you happen to be a small person, or I suppose even a normal sized person. Then the car would be applicable.

It is not luxurious. It is cheap. (And there might be some place inside where there’s a windup key, but I was never sure.)

I had no business, as a very, very large man, ever purchasing such a car.

But pridefully, because it was on sale and I could actually afford it, I squeezed myself into it at the dealership. The salesman lit up my ego by saying, “Oh, my goodness! You got in there pretty easily.”

That was all I needed.

Actually I did not get in there easily. It was almost like I had to ship my parts in one at a time, before I could finally allow my caboose to arrive in Penn Station.

The steering wheel was too close. I tried to push the seat further and further back, until one day it just broke. Either they didn’t have replacement seats or I was too embarrassed to admit I broke mine, but I decided to prop up the broken piece with chunks of wood. (For a very brief time, it worked–until the metal started chewing into the wood, making my back seat floor resemble the sawdust from a lumber yard.)

I had no business owning a compact car.

There. I said it.

Now I’ve reached an age when, if I was actually able to get into a compact car–if I could struggle to achieve it–I should do so with my last breath … and call it my coffin.

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dictionary with letter A

Anosmia: (n) the loss of the sense of smell, caused by injury, infection or the blockage of the nose.

There’s a name for it!

One of my greatest joys in doing this daily essay is discovering that there are words that have been set aside to describe much of the weirdness that I’ve experienced in my life.

I probably won’t remember the word in the moment that I need it, but it’s still nice to know that my predicament is common enough that somebody “worded” it.

Several years ago I had a sinus infection. I didn’t know it was a sinus infection, but all of the amateur doctors I’m acquainted with (who also double as friends and family) let me know that I did not have a common cold, but rather, common sinusitis.

I convinced myself that I got the condition from sleeping in a house where construction was going on and that sawdust had stuffed up my beezer. Of course, this is highly unlikely, but it sounded cool when relating my malady to others.

But one of the things I remember about the experience was that I stopped being able to smell anything. Food, bathroom aromas and even my own particular scent evaded my scrutiny.

At first I wasn’t bothered by this side effect, but then I began to wonder if I was stinking to other folks, and was unaware of it.

I did what every human being would do. I overcompensated:

  • Instead of splashing myself with cologne once, I did it three times.
  • A double application of deodorant.
  • And an extra minute or two in the shower, scrub-a-dub-dub.

It was at this point that I noticed that people were wincing as I walked by, so I decided I must be stinking horribly, so I doused myself even further.

Honestly, I’ve never had all my friends so glad to see me get over an ailment.

So I guess the moral of the story is: when you can’t smell yourself, it’s better to assume you’re okay. 

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