Old blog repost.

Now there’s a little guy with a nice exoskeleton.

Every once in a while, I think a shrunken man should be just as strong as a normal-sized man. Just for fun.

Years ago, I used to amuse myself with visions of a small man, a two-inch-tall one, being strong enough to toss his lady love across a room, if she threw his first. You know how that is… she waits in front of the dollhouse until he comes out, nicely dressed and ready to go to work, when she fires her Super Soaker at him, and the stream of water hits him square on the chest, sending him back into the dollhouse so fast and hard that he crashes through its bitty walls, all the way out the other side.

Of course you realize this means war.

[Super] soaked, he storms across the room and grabs her by the toe. She laughs when it tickles, and squeals when he lifts her entire body and starts spinning her in the air, only holding her by her big toe. When he lets go, she flies in an arch to the far side of the room, and crashes against the wall. Not through it, though. That image doesn’t amuse me.

It’s all in good fun, and no one gets hurt. Otherwise she wouldn’t ambush him as often as she can. This is not about violence at all, but about laughter and physical comedy. It’s playful the way two terminators that love each other yet are sending each other through walls are playful.

And if he isn’t extraordinarily strong, who’s to push her sandals close when she gets ready to go out? Who’s to carry her over pond-sized puddles? Who’ll bring her a snack when she’s hungry? I love the idea of his strength matching hers or surpassing it when it strikes my fancy, and it makes me smile to picture that sandal moving as though moved by an invisible power until one looks closely and sees his little shape at one side of it, and just as fun, a bowl of tortilla chips hovering a couple of inches off the floor from the kitchen to the living room, until she lifts it off him and sees him on the floor.

Something else that’s nice about it… you know how every once in a while you step on stuff? At home, I mean. You cat’s paw, a toy your kid left on the floor with the intention of killing you, dry pet food that escaped the bag, etc. You don’t mean to, but suddenly there’s something broken on the floor, and it’s your foot that did it. When that happens to me and I find myself in a quirky mood, I like to picture that not always would I have to worry about finding him a smear staining my heel, if his body was as strong as it was before I shrank him.

Sometimes I step on him as I distractedly go on about my day, and only realize what I’ve done when I feel the slightest squirming under my sole. I lift my foot and take a look, and there he is, still yelling at me for being so clumsy, but with every tiny bone in his body intact, and unbroken.  Is that a much better image than finding out that the little man you adore with all your heart is now nothing but a stain you have to wipe off your foot with a length of tissue that then ends up flushed down the toilet?

That’s not a good image for me.

That’s all she wrote.

Queen – Under Pressure

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