A bite-size crisis

"Are you going to try to eat me?" asks the younger of the visiting brothers when I open yet another packet of cookies, or candy, or chips, or biltong, or lunch bars, and stick it under his nose and prompt him to "EAT SOMETHING for goodness sakes!"

He is suspecting me of attempting to fatten him up, like what's-that-boy-in-Grimm-Hansel-someone, so that I can trick him into the oven in my gingerbread house and feast on him.

I'm not. I don't even like chicken that much (which is what people taste like according to Hannibal Lecter, I think? Or possibly that Argentine team that crashed their plane? I forget. Someone said chicken, right?). But just in case you were wondering where this blog was headed and whether prison or into hiding were some of those places, they're not. Sorry, I'm your garden-variety nut, not the murderous, wacko kind of loon, and although I would seriously want one, I'm fresh out of gingerbread houses, even the cheap, small kind. And I've never been a big fan of brown as an exterior wall coloring.

See! Not crazy after all.

But something is definitely going on, and while not a cookie-related, cannibalistic something, it's still creeping me out.

The only thing I can think of is: When did I become someone's grandmother? And whether this new development in my personality will also mean that wearing men's long underwear outside and accessorizing that awesomeness with a pair of rubber boots and an apron is something I'll find myself doing next (this might be in the genes)? And will I perhaps soon notice myself keeping crumpled euro-bills in my apron folds and slipping them to unsuspecting children whenever I get the chance? Alongside with cookies I've baked myself, but that accidentally have human hairs poking out of them, which I won't be able to see because of my failing eyesight (Ja. Also in the genes)?      

Is this where I'm headed?

Because there's no way I'll ever become one of those grandmothers who coif their hair every morning, wear Dior to the expensive, posh grocery store, accessorize that very same Dior with a little bark-y pooch, and have dinner with their still-alive friends before heading off to the theatre.

Oh no. I'll be the one whose breath alone will scare kids far and wide. And whose hard candy will have that weird pocket-fluff and other assorted goodness stuck on it.

I'm rattled. The visitors are driving me towards an existential crisis.

But on the upside, I saw a wild lion up close and it didn't eat me. And In my world that's some serious balance right there.

Excuse me? Are you the one who starred in the Lion King? No? Didn't think so. Although I must say the resemblance is uncanny.