Sometimes, Google results (the new e-ncylopedia) tells me what I want to know about something. Sometimes, the Googling only obfuscates, or in my jargon, fudges it ’til I get tired of trying to find an answer or forget wth I wanted to know because I landed on Click #22 and, “OMG, really? I’ll be darned!”
The other day, I’d wanted to make a comparison and needed an analogy for two somethings that seemed similar but were actually as different from each other as chimps from men — as different as the great apes are from Homo erectus. I thought I’d see what Dr. Google the Scientist had to say of the differences.
Well, good luck, me! I’d forgotten there were so many classified stages of (wo)man. After about a half hour of reading, I only wanted chocolate, gobs of it, and to make no damned apology for it. It turns out that “Homo erectus” was not what I’d wanted to say at all. “Heavens to Murgatroyd, catch UP, Relax! We’ve even gone past Homo sapiens!” Have we, now?? Oh, thank goodness. Because even Neanderthalus was of the Homo sapiens persuasion. I try to put as much distance as possible between he and me. He would get neither pinball machines nor lava lamps, and I don’t have time to explain. I’m too busy Googling “he and me?” “he and I?” “him and me?” And Google is busy obfuscating.
Anyway, indeed, we (you, me, and that one over there) are Homo sapiens sapiens! That’s right — we could be in a Doublemint chewing gum commercial (“Double your pleasure..”)!
I couldn’t remember what the heck I’d wanted to write of.. I just wanted chewing gum, now.
And today, and actually last weekend, too, and all the way in between, I have marveled at men’s enormous, hard, misshapen bellies. (It’s summer in New England.. everyone’s pregnant, sorta.) At the beachette (it’s between the river and the ocean) today, I silently pondered whales for a while, and then asked DH, “Is it a 9″ solid layer of fat covering that man’s mid-section organs, or do the organs get fat, too?”
Poor DH.. he’d just wanted to admire clouds… and that lovely tanned blond strolling by in a white bikini, and the one on the surfboard out there that her b/f was paddling while she reclined behind him, her feet on his back as a chair to lean against. I myself wouldn’t have minded admiring some Sam Elliots there, eh? but we were somehow 100% short on those — as always.
He took a wild (shut-her-up) stab at it, and said, “Yes, no doubt that the organs somewhere in all that belly-chest expand as well.” Expand? Oh, my. Women get “hefty” but men “expand.” I seeeeee….
Google obfuscated. It just couldn’t handle it. It would not say that if a cross-section of belly could be video-cleaved for my natural curiosity, it would show 12 to 18 layers similar to tree growth rings, except made of beer, butter, bacon, beef, brie and bread — repeated twice or thrice — with shy normal-sized organs under it all, squished and gasping, but afraid to say anything too rude until later in life.
However, it did admit that visceral fat — the hard unjiggly misshapen stuff (as opposed to the cute subcutaneous fat sported by, oh, I dunno, “hefty” women) was indeed surrounding each of the organs deep inside — very dangerous indeed.
Well, I wasn’t looking for danger, but I apparently must always find it.
Instead of Sam Elliot.