I Can’t Find My Belt Buckle

Recently, as I was getting dressed, I complained to my wife, “I can’t find my belt buckle.”

A little side note here: Why is it that husbands immediately assume anything that’s lost can be found by their wives?

Come to think of it, don’t kids assume the same thing about their mothers? As in,
• “Hey mom, I can’t find any socks.”
• “Momma, where’s my toothbrush?”
• “Momma, I can’t find one of my shoes.”

The remarkable thing is your wives and mothers know EXACTLY where to find things. You walk into a teenager’s bedroom that looks like it’s been hit by a cyclone and point out the missing shoe or sock.

But, back to me and my lost belt buckle.

Ever since high school, I’ve been tall and thin and endured all those skinny jokes while in school. One time, a number of years ago, while on a horseback ride in the Smokey Mountains with friends, we got soaked by a thunderstorm. Once the rain stopped, us guys took off our shirts, wrung them out, then hung them on the saddle horn to dry. My best friend looked at me and remarked, “You look like a starving Indian.” (That’s just the kind of best friend he is.)

There was no point in arguing with him or getting my feelings hurt when in truth my ribs looked like a xylophone.

In recent years, though, I’ve had to add an extra hole toward the end of my belts, snakeskin belts that I’ve had for twenty years and never replaced because they were handmade by my good friend, Felipe, in Honduras and have sentimental value.

Adding an extra hole is an admission of guilt.

“Yes, your honor, I’ve gained some weight.”

Pounds have a sinister way of sneaking onto your body. It’s like a friend declared at a thirty-year class reunion, “I’ve done pretty good with my weight. I’ve only gained three pounds a year.” (I’ll let you do the math on that one.)

If we gained fifteen or twenty pounds overnight, we would immediately be alarmed and do something about it. But, hey, three pounds in one year? What’s the big deal?

So, for several years now, when cinching my belt, I slip that little thingy on the belt buckle that goes in the hole (its technical name is the prong, but I had to Google to find out) into the last hole.

Putting on a belt, I slide it through the belt loops (don’t forget that loop in the back), bring the end to the front, stick it through the frame of the buckle, stick the prong in, then put the tip in that thingy (Google didn’t know the answer to that one) that keeps the belt from dangling down. Easy peasy.

However, on the morning in question, I looked down and couldn’t find my belt buckle because I couldn’t see it, because it was hidden under the overhang of my stomach! How did that happen seemingly overnight?

I immediately thought of how for years I’d silently made fun of men whose belt followed the shape of a parabola rather than a straight line around their waist because their girth was completely out of control.

“That’s what you get for being insensitive,” I told myself.

So, now, I’m on a mission not to lose weight but to find my belt buckle. I fear finding it will be much less enjoyable than losing it.

Wish me luck.

* Taken from The Wit and Wisdom of David Johnson, Volume I1: The Hairy Catfish Caper.