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.