I’m resigned to the inevitable. Never again will I sport washboard abs. This New Year I’ve made no resolution to acquire them, to sculpt them by starvation dieting and strenuous exercising from beneath the portliness of my manly flab.
Rather than foregoing frozen chocolate chip cookies and punishing myself—and prob’ly causing Dearest Duck to utter bad words—this January I’ve resolved to tally up my blessings because I live in Canada’s youngest province, the one with its own Time Zone.
How cool is that?!
No longer do I—and, of course, Dearest Duck, and you and you and you—live in the Land of Dan. Grand Dan has departed and gone to tread troubled waters elsewhere. Today we dwell in Dunderland and since it is winter, should we go out walking, we’d be walking in a winter…
Meditatively sipping herbal tea and nibbling toast dusted with a mixture of cinnamon and sugar, I ask myself if life is different in this brand new year, in the erstwhile Land of Dan, in Dunderland.
The sun still rises in the east above the roofs of neighbourhood houses as it has done ever since the roofs were built; ever since the east has existed.
As in the Land of Dan, so in Dunderland.
Daily, I haul my pants on one leg at a time. No, that’s a lie. Some mornings, if my midnight toddy of tea was heartily fortified, it’s necessary for me to sit on the edge of the bed, hook both my feet into the puddle of pants on the floor, then rock back on the bed bringing my feet and pants towards the ceiling. My pants slide down—yes, down, think about it—my legs and bunch around my butt. Then spritely—okay, maybe not spritely—I stand upright, yank up my trousers and fastened them snugly around my washboard…uh…no…my Michelin waist.
As in the Land of Dan, so in Dunderland.
Some days here in the Land of Plenty, in the Land of Milk and Honey, in the Land of Oil and Money, Dearest Duck coaxes—coerces?—me into our chariot, our—insert bad word here—Chevy. In preparation for a road trip to The Mall we patronize a local filling station where the rapidly ascending numbers on the gas pumps blur as foreign gasoline flows into Chev’s near-empty tank glug-a-glug-a-glugity-glug.
As in the Land of Dan, so in Dunderland.
“Harry, my obtuse love,” says Dearest Duck, her prudent palm lodged upon my shoulder, “you’re babbling, you’re mandering. Don’t be a Dunderhead.”
Forsooth! Dearest Duck has trumped me at my own tomfoolery. What can I do, except smile endearingly, nod in humble agreement and say, “My Duck, you’re seldom wrong.”
Then ask that she deign to leave the room.
As in the Land of Dan, so in Dunderland.
Unchanging times are evident on The Evening News.
Coifed and powdered anchors greet devoted viewers with saccharine smiles and trite “Good evenings.”
Then proceed when teleprompted to deliver depressing clips of anguish and despair.
Crimes both petty and horrendous have tarnished towns and infected quiet nights.
Unfortunate folks have been devastated by fire and senseless highway accidents.
Disease—or perhaps pestilence—has despoiled and wasted lives.
Ships have sunk; planes have crashed.
And all the while politicians have behaved absurdly.
As in the Land of Dan, so in Dunderland.
“Harry!” from another room.
“Alright, my Duck, I’ll mellow.”
Among the fortunate, at long day’s end with Dearest at my side, I marvel at the setting sun, albeit often fog-shrouded, painting twilight colours on the western bay.
Singularly as they appear, I count my lucky stars. As I did in the Land of Dan, so I do in Dunderland.
Since Grand Dan absconded and Premier Dunderdale has ascended to the tippy top of the capitol, my life has not changed a whit, a penny worth—whatever that means.
Has yours?
I haven’t tumbled down a rabbit hole into a wonder…ah…a mad hatter’s party where all assembled sip cups of—what else?—herbal tea. Nor have I been beleaguered by a crazy, cardboard queen.
Thank you for reading. As in the Land of Dan, so in Dunderland—I hope.
.jpg)
