Blame It On Your Age

She tells me to make an appointment to see a doctor and I flash my ‘I’ll get around to doing it” smile.

“You said you think you might have tendinitis in your arm and mentioned something about having an issue with the hand you dislocated a finger on.”

“I have dislocated fingers on both hand and everything works just fine.”

The wiggle and waggle of fingers for emphasis doesn’t provide comic relief, just exasperation.

It is 18 months since my last physical and the  surgery to repair a double hernia that came because of said physical.

There is no doubt some things are going on with me that one could speak with a doctor about but some of what he or she will say is going to focus upon my age.

I still say I hope I die before I get old and I mean it.

Blame It On Your Age

I got about 4 hours of shut eye last night so by the time the work day was over I was beat.

Drank some coffee, ate the left over half of my Corned Beef and Pastrami sandwich from lunch and spent the next hour drifting in and out of consciousness.

“Abba! Stop snoring, I can’t focus on my homework.”

“Maybe you ought to do it in your room.”

“I can’t, I need your help.”

“Ok, what do you need?”

I fall asleep once or twice in the middle of helping her but am awake long enough for my baby girl to ask how I can do some of this so effortlessly.

“Depends on what you are talking about, some of the stuff you asked about comes as easily as breathing for me. It doesn’t require great effort, especially when I have decades of experience doing it.”

She rolls her eyes at me and I make sure she knows I am trying to demean or diminish any of her work. Most of my success comes from 10,000 + hours of doing it.

“Your and brother and you are smarter than I am. You work hard and I am very proud of you, but never forget the value of experience.

I know a few tricks you haven’t learned yet, but you will. Give it time.”

****

There is a kid working out on the bench I like to use. Two 45 pound plates rest on each side of the bar.

“That’s 225. You need to get back there by December 31. Three sets of 15 reps at 225 and you’ll be doing alright. Just don’t drop the bar on your throat.”

Grunt and the clinking of metal interrupt my silent reverie.

Turns out the kid on the bench isn’t a kid. He is an old guy who is wearing a baseball cap.

Something about realizing the old guy was handling the weight I want to get back to makes me wonder if I can hit 225 now.

“Maybe 315 is in sight for this year. That might be kind of cool. Focus boychik, one step at a time.”

This has been a week with moments where I remember life is a strange and magical journey.

I really want to test myself and see if I can handle 225 today, but that funny feeling in my hand makes me hesitate, so I compromise and set it up for 215.

The body answers the question of can I play with madness with a positive affirmation and I jump off the bench feeling pumped.

Four hours of sleep and a little worn but racing forwards becoming the best I can be now at lumbering speed.

“Not too shabby.”

Where Is Your Focus?

A dear friend says he has read some of my posts and wants to know where my focus is.

“I have those two big issues that I am working on. I never stop thinking about them. I just put the box away for a little while and do my best to manage them.”

“Is that it?”

“No, not really. I don’t like what I see going on in the world. There are some very troubling things going on and I am not certain what to make of some of it. We have to be vigilant and have to push back on some of it.

But I don’t think it is time to panic either,  that never helps.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to write and or create content that fits Whitman’s quote. The kind of thing that takes you away and makes you forget. Find a way to make the ordinary into extraordinary and weave something magical.”

There is always room for another miracle or two. Some might say that is a ridiculous idea but not me.

Blame it on my age.