The Art of Caring

As a beyond middle-aged man, I am finding myself becoming more and more tired, physically and mentally tired. So much so, I am becoming careful of how I step, how I bend over-WHY am I bending over, even asking do I need to bend over? My knees hurt, my left leg has been conducting a slow throb all day today, and I found myself pushing the cart at the hardware store while  my shoulders were up in my ears, like I had a permanent shrug cooking. Along with the shrug, as I sit here and type these words, my glasses sit on my face, slightly crooked-and I just don't care.

I guess that's part of the growing old thing. After a while, your desire to care, especially about hygiene, soaps, laundry, floor wax, or their associated relatives, kind of go to the back burner of life. I care about stuff-government, green house gases, my family, my retirement account, important stuff. The other stuff, not so much. 

Sure I can still run. I exercise every day, vigorously, well, maybe not on weekends. Weekends have their own activities, like mowing lawns, and trimming trees. My running days are over and replaced with a bike some time ago. I tried to bring running back in time to run with my son in the Pat Tillman run but I couldn't get it going. Just couldn't float that muskrat  down the Tuscaloosa, if you know what I'm saying.  

I still get up on the roof, climb trees to trim out their centers so they don't get too thick, sit Indian style to re-glue some sprinkler parts, or hold a spray rig over my head to paint the patio roof. I still, if I had too, move like an twenty-two year old. Only if I had too. There better be a damn good reason I am moving like a twenty-two year old and someone better have some ibuprofen when I get done.  But then we come back to the reason I am still sitting here with my glasses almost at a seventeen degree angle on my face and the fact that two paragraphs later I still haven't fixed them.

I just don't care. 

I find myself being more careful. I walked out this morning, actually, the last week or so, to get the paper. Myself and the woman next door still get the paper on our street. We're old school. Anyway, I stood over it for a moment, thinking about bending over and retrieving it. I did. I made sure I bent my knees and got a firm grip before I started to stand again. Going down was a lot easier then standing back up with it. This afternoon, I need to go hang up some shirts I pulled out of the dryer two days ago. They're in the same pile as the underwear and Swiffer mop heads. I figured if they were all the same color and you washed them on hot, the fading and the sterilization of everything works out. They might be a little wrinkled but if you tuck them into your pants tight enough, those wrinkles just buff right out.

I guess its a priority thing. As you get older, your priorities change a little. I find happiness if I wear a belt. I feel I've accomplished something if there is a belt AND its through all the loops, not missing one. That is a good day when you haven't missed a belt loop. Or you remember to shower sometime during Saturday. Sure, you can get up and get going. You NEVER shower before you cut the lawn. That is just a sign of being a pompous ass.  But you shouldn't forget to clean up before bed time. The world is just a nicer place if you shower by the end of the day and crawl into some cool, clean sheets. 


Maybe I sound a little negative. I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound negative. My older brothers are charging after life and making every day count-like a beef collar at a wolf convention. But sometimes, I think they too want to lie down and let the Big Wave of Nappy Time sweep them off to the the Memory Foam Solar System.


Maybe, someday, I'll get there-when its time. Apparently, I have to hang out on this rock for a while longer.


Maybe by then, I'll have a set of glasses that will stay lined up on my face.

Here We Go----Again

It is not possible to enjoy the spring that has fallen on us without thinking about the hellish summer that is rolling down the highway to our living rooms and activating evap coolers and ceiling fans everywhere, bringing another summer of such statements as HOLY MOTHER OF THE LIVING GOD- MY SKIN IS ON FIRE! SWEET BABY JESUS, MAKE IT STOP!! Or, how about this for an evening of fun--walking the indoor mall, all under the idea of getting out and doing something-fun. You lose track of the outside world because you are in someone else's bought air.

By all reports, Arizona is going to have another above average summer with regard to temperatures. You know, I can't remember one summer where the forecast WASN'T that prediction. Swimsuits are on the mannequins along with towels, lawn furniture, seed, fertilizer, all the things that you need to go outside and enjoy the world are on sale at the stores. Put away the jackets Mildred, Spring is here!

I know, I know, I've never lived in Buffalo, New York in the winter where the sun disappears and so do the streets, trees, sidewalks, cars, or anyone drunk enough to stumble out their front door on New Year's Eve and fall off the front porch during a lake effect snow storm where the poor bastard is not found until "The Thaw". Then the summer bugs pick you up and carry you off. I know and I should be thankful that even the bugs out here don't survive the summer heat, except for cockroaches of course. They survive everything.

Its just that it would be nice to have a 'wet' summer, a 'snowy' summer, an 'anything' but a scorching six months of "You Got to Be Kidding Me" summer. Since we have all this global warming and weather change stuff, we could have a weather change here, just once. A summer where it rained, actually rained. Even a few floods, that wouldn't be bad. Floods in Arizona are always kind of fun. On the news, there is always someone who tries to cross a creek when it was traditionally dry and they get swept down stream. That just makes for good television. Rescue comes and saves them then charges them for the rescue. That seems fair.

Its the way God thins out the herd. Right now, we have temperature swings of thirty degrees in a week. I don't think it's too much to ask, just once, to look down range for a few months and not dread the knowledge that I will sweat like a Turkish border guard during the night, even with my Hunter ceiling fan on high. Sure, it could be hormones, but we all know, everyone here in the southwest knows.


Yep, here we go.