Yesterday I wrote about how, much like a vampire, I burst into flames when in direct sunlight. This the bane of being blonde. (Great alliteration there, Deej!)
As I recover from my pink face and belly I thought I’d take a few moments to write about the greatest thing on the planet. No hyperbole. Okay, a little hyperbole.
Paw twitches from cats and dogs.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Yes, paw dream twitches are amazing. But are they better than a cat baking biscuits on your stomach? Or a dog tilting it’s head to the side when you say it’s name?”
It’s a tight race, but paw twitches edges them out.
But now that I’m thinking about it – there is something even better than pet sleep twitching. This is when, a few times a year, some part of your body (usually around your upper thigh) goes batshit and starts pulsating at random intervals. Your body is doing something awesome, and you had no idea it was coming. You just hope it doesn’t go away. You watch it through your jeans and see if it moves the jeans. You take your jeans off and watch it go free and clear. You stroke and hold it trying to understand it’s origin. One hour later it is gone and you are sad.
I get to experience paw twitches most nights. My dog sleeps between my legs, apparently the warmest spot on the bed. If I don’t eat ice cream she’s in for a peaceful night. My cat will be curled up near my left armpit, like I was putting my arm around her shoulder.
Then, at about the fifteen minute mark, both of them start twitching like magic. Their paws, their noses, their whiskers. It’s nothing but twitching. And since I only get the weird skin pulse thing once a year, this is my nightly Christmas. I did one of those Oprah “gratitude lists” last week and I wrote, “Paw twitches” as my first one. Then I stopped. The list was complete.
Oh yeah, some of my friends with children say that babies do the same thing. That’s a pretty exciting thing for me when I eventually get re-married and decide to have children. It’s worth getting screamed at in the delivery room while you’re trying to force ice chips down your wife’s gullet as she poops herself on the gurney. I’ll be live blogging from there. Don’t worry.
