In general, we men folk tend to eat as if a fast moving blaze were advancing up each of the four legs of our dining room chair and we need to finish before it reaches the seat. My wife always tells me I should chew my food better before sending it on its solemn trip to the dirty south. That is a wife’s job after all, to tell us husbands things that we should have the sense to know without being told.

Maybe it’s not that we don’t know, maybe we just like to know someone cares enough about us to tell us what we should know. Proof that someone would just as soon see us breathing freely without obstruction rather than clutching our throats…eye’s bulging…neck muscles straining (the same way you looked in your wedding pictures). Proof that we are worthy and loved enough to have cautionary words of advice repeatedly repeated in our general direction. Or we just don’t care. We don’t see the danger in lobbing an entire bread roll in our pie hole before we’ve given the fist sized piece of brisket previously placed in said pie hole sufficient attention.

I have noticed that I am a more attentive and meticulous masticator when I’m dining alone or in the company of those that I don’t trust to effectively perform the Heimlich. Such as, those not wearing pants or in possession of stubby arms. By alone I mean far enough removed from other people that I couldn’t run wild eyed, crashing towards them with a slab of sirloin in my throat before losing consciousness. It’s always difficult to effectively convey your situational needs when you’re unconscious. Though I’ve never tested my range I suppose I could make it 100 yards…give or take…depending on terrain, wind, and proper footwear.

My wife should take it as a vote of confidence in her life saving abilities that I choose to forgo chewing in her presence. I liken it to skydiving with the instructor strapped to your back. Steadfast and poised, on high alert to keep you both from sudden slimness. I’ve never skydived before but I would imagine that it is somewhat easier to bail out of a perfectly good airplane while in the warm embrace of a professional as compared to all alone with nobody but yourself to rely on.

From past experience I am aware that yourself can be unreliable when entrusted to do far more mundane tasks than properly opening a parachute. Sure, we’ve all heard stories of people surviving parachuting mishaps but those are stories I am content to just hear about. You can have your harrowing story of landing face down in a manure pile and walking away scented but unscathed.

Besides, how many times could you tell a story like that? Do you want that to be the pinnacle of your existence? The only lasting impression you leave behind…except the one in the manure pile of course. Even that impression will eventually get filled in with more manure. There’s never a shortage of manure. I suppose there’ll never be a shortage of people falling face down in it either.

I guess if we allow ourselves to be defined by the act of getting out of it rather than falling into it we’ll be all right. After all, for the most part, that’s what we want for each other…to be all right. Maybe I’ll start chewing my food better…maybe.

I’d like to send a birthday wish over Bozeman way to our daughter Sierra. Nineteen years old, away from home, learning a trade, learning about life, learning, learning, learning…she’s doing all right.