Psssst! C'mere. No! Don't look at me! Please! Just act normal. I don't want to draw attention. But I've gotta tell someone. Ready?
I think my husband is an alien.
Shhhh! No, it's true. When I married him 27.2 years ago I had no idea. But listen. The signs are there. And I'm starting to get worried, you know? Like some morning I'm going to wake up and lying next to me will be a dude with ET sticking out of his chest. I figure I'd better tell someone so at least the world will know before my Husband-o-Pod-Borg-Creature assimilates me and I'm no longer here to write on this blog.
How do I know? Well, first of all, the man's legs look like this:
Excuse me. Is that normal? My legs don't look like that. Your legs don't look like that. He says that's what happens when you run a 50 mile race. And it's even worse when you run a 100-miler.
Riiiiight. Humans don't run 50-milers. And only someone from another planet would run 100. By themselves. Every year. With a bunch of other borged-out whackjobs who are programmed to do the same thing.
It's so not normal. Neither is this:
Oh yeah. *wink wink* That's a radio antenna. Psh. Thing sticks so high up above my house it has warning lights for low-flying aircraft. Mothership-type aircraft. Why else would it be capable of radioing Antarctica and freaking Pluto. Which they say is not a planet, but I think that's just a big fat cover up so Pluto-people like my husband can run around with scaly reptile legs, erecting landing pads for their little Cylon DeathRay Craft, and no one will be the wiser.
Right. Here's what we're going to do. Meet me at Orange Leaf and give me the password to the secret eBay account you'll set up for me. I'm'a rip that "antenna" down and sell it. Then you and I can go on a trip to Scotland and let my little alien wander around the kitchen, instead of running a hundred miles or signaling the moons of Jupiter.
Ready? Synchronize watches . . .
Definitely alien.
I was thinking about him this week – is there another 100 mile race in the works this year?
Yes, there is. Bleh. I always worry about him on those crayzay things.
I need to write to you, my dear! Brace yourself!