Editor’s note: The following is a continuing journal of a fictional college student. It is intended to be a humorous and enjoyable feature about an average Joe. It runs weekly, on Fridays. Though written by Iowa State’s own Scott Jacobson, a Daily staff writer, people, places and events detailed below are not analogous to a real student.

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April 4, 1997

So there I was, with a tape measure wrapped around my waist, wondering what had happened to my finely sculpted body, when I realized that all laws of physics had been thrown out the window and my once chiseled granite torso had somehow been transformed into a giant Jell-O jiggler.

Monica had dragged me into this little shop on Main to get measured for a tux because Eddie’s other cousin Walter is getting married in June and wants me to be a groomsman since I’m basically part of their family aside from the fact that they don’t have any naked baby pictures of me in the bathtub with a cap gun in my hand, and they didn’t raise a fuss when I dated Walt’s sister in junior high.

Aside from that, I’m like blood. Their parents tend to think of me as the illegitimate, delinquent son they never had nor wanted.

They even let me keep a toothbrush at their house in a little porcelain cow on the bathroom sink, so you know there’s a lot of love going around.

So there I was, asking Monica why I couldn’t have the nice tailor lady doublecheck my inseam when I noticed the outlandish measurements she’d written down on the little card Walt had sent me.

By some cruel act of nature, I was actually getting shorter and wider as the years went by.

Fear gripped my chubby, little body when it occurred to me that by the time I turn 30, I’ll be able to do convincing stuntwork for Jabba the Hut and various sumo wrestlers.

Oh, well, no time to think about my physical inadequacies, of which there are many, because last weekend brought about an important time in every young person’s life — introducing the significant other to the extended family.

For Easter weekend, Monica and I decided that we would go to my grandma’s house to celebrate the coming of the bunny with my parents, cousins, relatives, and of course, Uncle Joe.

This was a big step for me, because I’ve never taken femalia to see Grandma out of fear that there is some hideous curse surrounding her land that causes family members to marry any significants that they bring with them to a holiday meal.

Hell, for years I was afraid to take Eddie with me simply because I thought we’d be magically joined at the hip as soon as he stepped foot on her porch.

But I decided to take the plunge and invite Monica to go with me, if for no other reason than to meet my crazy Uncle Joe.

She’d heard stories and seen pictures of the old coot, but she never quite got the full effect until she met him in Grandma’s kitchen and he offered her half of his last pizza roll and a warm can of Grain Belt Lite (the official beer of my crazy Uncle Joe).

And people wonder where I get it from.

I had told Monica before we left for up north that she had to understand a few things about my family and how we celebrate holidays.

See, there’s a rigid schedule that was established in the mid-1800s by my great-great grandpa and his crazy Uncle Gus that we have passed along through the years that involves cards, eating, naps and cards.

After swapping small talk and hugs and commenting on how tall (or wide, as my case may be), Uncle Joe gets out the Kingston Trio records and cranks them up on the hi-fi while I set up the card table.

Then the first game of 500 (which is actually just Euchre with strategy) starts and for the next 12 hours, we don’t move from the table unless we’re getting another round of beer or taking a break to make room for more.

The thing that made this Easter weekend better than years past was that Monica played a mean game of 500, didn’t mind drinking warm GBL, let me have all of her marshmallow bunnies, found the second-most eggs of anyone in the family (my three-year-old cousin edged her out because he could fit under the porch) and even sang along with my crazy Uncle Joe to the greatest hits of the Statler Brothers.

Much to my grandma’s disappointment, however, when we left I told her not to expect an engagement announcement anytime soon.

I may dig this girl, but we’re taking it one cautious step at a time.

Of course, getting married would mean another trip to the tailor lady to get my inseam measured, so I got that going for me.

Which is nice.