Hot Moses and Madea - A Bedtime Story

Once Upon A Time...

Well, actually, it was only last night. 

There I was, right in the middle of a really good dream. I was playing baseball for the Texas Rangers. I had just scored a double on errors, which absolutely infuriated Alex Rodriquez. As I was brushing the dust off my knickers, he ran aggressively towards me, steroid-filled veins popping from his forehead.  Red-faced with anger, spittle flying from his mouth, he began screaming at me, calling me a "base-stealing bitch"! Instead of getting all pissy, I calmly wrapped my arms around him, hugged him close and told him how sorry I was for his unhappiness. 

I'll never know how that dream ended; never know if I scored with either Alex OR home plate, because my dream was rudely interrupted by the air-sucking 140-decibel sound of snores emanating from the other side of the bed.

I furiously thrashed around to confront my bunk buddy, full of intention to interrupt HIS dream with a well-placed spousely shove.

But the look of total relaxation on his sweet, tired face stopped me right in my tracks.

My Dickman. 

He'll be 59 years old this year. He has an AARP card in his wallet. His rotator cuff has been repaired, his cataracts have been removed and his left knee joint needs replacing. Every line on his face tells a story.

He never looked more beautiful to me.

As I continued to stare at his dear familiar face, his flowing silver hair, his perfectly trimmed beard, it suddenly occurred to me that the older he got, the more the Dickman looked like...

Moses. 

No, not THAT Moses...

But THIS Moses:

HOT Moses.

When did this happen? 

I mean, I'm getting older and hotter, too. But my hotness comes from night sweats, which make my wiry gray hair all kinky and my eye bags all saggy and my matronly chesticles all sweaty.

Get the picture? 

Somehow, while the Dickman is morphing into Charlton Heston, I'm looking more and more like....

Freaking Madea.  

Well played, menopause.  Well played.

As I lay there soaking up sweat and appreciating the beauty of my snoring Moses, I began talking to him in my head.

[I do this a lot, but usually when I am mad.]

The one-sided conversation went something like this:

Hey there, Moses.

Your Snore-Guard isn't working right now.

But that's okay.

It gives me a chance to tell you all the things I've been too busy to say.

What you did today was...  just, wow.

Who else leaves a business meeting in Dallas and drives 350 miles to comfort a grieving friend?

Hot Moses, that's who.

Instead of coming home, you went where you were needed most.  

Just long enough to hug him, to share memories of eating cookies in his Mama's kitchen, to help him smile through the grief. 

But that's not all.

The way you comfort your own Mom... your patience and your kindness as you listen to her worries and try to calm her fears.

And the times I've caught you standing quietly at my Mama's bedroom door, just watching her breathe, just making sure...

I've never loved you more.

Seeing you hold your brand new grandson, searching for your Dad in every feature of his tiny perfect face.

It's not easy being Moses.

Parting seas and dealing with burning bushes is exhausting work.

You keep right on snoring, sweet man.  

You've earned them, every one.

Then I softly patted his big, strong shoulder, quietly rolled over, put my earplugs in and went back to sleep.

The End.