The Sickness and “The Unhappy Painter”

I am maybe emerging from this cold a bit; it’s so discouraging to feel absolutely rotten after so many weeks of feeling fantastic. For sure my goal of walking 75 miles this month has taken a hit. I’ll have to be diligent about it once I’m convinced that I can walk without falling down—which isn’t going to be today, I’m thinking, but look how I am chipper enough to blog!

There hasn’t been much I’ve been able to focus on the past few days, but I have been going through Mik’s box of ancient memorabilia bit by bit. My favorite discovery so far is a story called “The Unhappy Painter.” It begins:

There was a painter. He was unhappy. His friends were going to move away. I am going to tell you the story.

It turns out the friends were moving because their mother wanted them to live closer to her. After a few misunderstandings and hard feelings at a “grand carnival” they get to the heart of the problem:

[The unhappy painter] finally told them they did not have to move. They looked surprised. They asked him if that was true. So he had to tell them that they were grown up and they did not have to move. And they lived happily ever after.

The end. Did you catch the moral of the story? Once you’re grown up, you no longer have to listen to your well-meaning but overbearing mother! I am dying. (Three more years, Mik, three more years.)