During our lives, we have times that, well, quite frankly, are a little busy. I am terrible at social stuff. I fake it. I really do. As I get older, I like to go out more often, but I don't like to stay. It's like I need to go 'touch' whatever it is then I can go home, get into my jammies, and wander off into the deep well that is the Delta sleep level during REM. This reminds me-let me take us down a rabbit trail about sleep, which I have to mention before I forget where I was going; kind of like walking into the kitchen from the den, opening the refrigerator door and standing there, forgetting what you were looking for.
What was I saying-see? I forgot-oh, wait, now I remember, sleep. A few years ago, I would wake up with the digital rolling of the clock. I could hear the alarm 'click' sound to start the music. I slept that light. Yesterday morning, I was soooooo faaaaarrrr down in the deep well that I call Delta level sleep, the music actually was part of the dream. I hit the snooze button twice. I never even knew what the snooze button was for until about six months ago-never used it. Bastards (my favorite swear word. It is always plural).
All this to take us back onto the main trail about social dancing and the thrill of just living. We can go to the mall and walk around, usually when I am in the walking 'zone' I have my hands behind my back, my brain is in neutral, like every other man of 85 or more doing the same thing, only I'm not wearing black socks with my shorts. We might get something to eat, walk some more, then come home. Sometimes the drive to the mall is longer than the walk. Like I just want to go and get out and drive around, then walk, then come home. A friend of mine was in a small band and played at a restaurant. I could sit there and listen to him, have a scotch, share a pizza or a salad or whatever, then come home by 9:00. I'M FIFTY-FRIGGIN TWO!
I also discovered recently that my running days are just about done. No, correct that, my running days are over. My knees are like two Peruvian tortillas after my morning run. Look, I'm 52-oh, I said that huh? Memory is the next thing-bastards. I've been running since I was in Pop Warner, whenever that was-ten? Now, I get my sorry ass out of bed and go for a bike ride instead of a run in the pre-dawn dark. Same cardio, better on my knees, but I had to come to grips that I wasn't the Maltese Falcon anymore. If my son and I wrestled again, which we have done extensively, I think I could still take him, but I would have to refer you to the movie of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid for the type of fighting I would have to resort to. I could take him, but cheating would be my middle name. He has all that Army training crap and youth and muscle on his side but I have old age and treachery. I can still hop the wall to my neighbor's house next door, but with age comes the pausing question-why not walk around to the gate? See? I think that is what we exchange our knee cartilage for, brains-if we live long enough.
The wisdom that comes from just taking more breaths than others for a longer period of time, counts for something. Sure, you could be a real screw up at twenty-five. But if you live to eighty, you must have learned something to allow yourself to not be such a screw up for so long.
See, my theory is god thins the herd at two major points; between the age of thirty and forty-five and again later. If you haven't turned a major corner in your attitude or life style by one of those time periods, a tree is going to fall on you. I don't mean you have to be perfect, nope, that won't ever happen. But how many bullets can you dodge? A Department of Justice report indicated that most gang members are either dead or permanently incarcerated by the age of 42. The herd is thinned. The next thinning, at least for men, is right around 60-70. That's when the first 'Big One' starts thumping on your chest.
It doesn't help the fact that my family can now be shown to be 'predisposed' to things like cancer and heart disease. Every physical form I ever filled out since high school I had to check the first three boxes for family history-cancer, diabetes, and heart disease the 'Big Three', geez.
My dad had his first HA at 55 and the one that put him down at 58. My brother had something like eight vessels blocked and they were taking veins from chickens to put him back together at age 59. They didn't even have a name for it like 'quadruple' or 'triple' bypass. You look at him or my dad and you would say nope, not them. They look healthy. They had other factors that played into it but the Williams line has some gene that explodes at a predetermined time, our own IED. I have them both beat with dedicated exercise for a longer period of time and I eat well but I still have no illusions of making it out of fifties without someday breaking into a cold sweat with a sharp pain lancing down my arm while I'm operating something with a spinning sharp blade before I'm 60, not a chance in hell.
So, here, two weeks after our last kid got married and the smoke has cleared, do I sit in a house that is actually pretty still. Life, right now, has slowed, at least today. I helped my son in law move and plant something like 4,500 square feet of sod in his back yard yesterday. The old man operated an old wheel borrow and could still work like a Trojan slave. Three Advil this morning helped. Tomorrow morning, I'm back on the bike, listening to NPR and riding the neighborhood in the pre-dawn. Heart disease has to find and catch me first.
I like it.
But the pessimist in me says it won't last.
Nope, no such luck for a husband and father who actually did pretty well as a husband and father. My family loves me. They actually like to be around me, in limited amounts. They are making no plans for me to be electrocuted in the shower with an accidental falling lamp (not that I spent any time thinking about things like this) or doing Rocks Paper Scissors to see who gets Dad when he's in diapers, the house keeps the rain off, I've found a semi-creative side, I still have a job, and I currently have my health an most of my teeth. Life, right now, just before beddy-bye time is pretty good.
Now, if I can just put my hands in my pockets instead of behind my back when I walk the mall. Baby steps.
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