If I call you mom this might not the best post to read because I might dive headfirst into the fire and explore areas that are uncomfortable and probably unnecessary for you to hear, read or be exposed to.
You’ll know I am serious when I say I am going to start it right this now because you of all people were there to here me say it.
So as I take this potch and throw it away and digest the hangaburger I had for dinner I am jumping in with few to no restraints and no idea where this will go.
It might focus on discussions of whether there are Basal pens in my future, cataracts and other meds for my eyes.
Mostly it is going to begin with acknowledging that grief is a real motherfucker and I blame it for making life five times as challenging as it might otherwise be.
I am not comparing or contrasting my grief with that experienced by others because it is not a contest and there are no prizes.
Grief is one of the most intimate and personal things we experience and as such we all do it somewhat differently.
Which reminds me about how I have begun to despise hearing/reading people talk about being their authentic self.
There is some question about whether Twain wrote the quote above or if it is a modified version of something he said in Pudd’nhead Wilson.
Since this post isn’t subject to the rigors of academia or science I won’t spend any more time trying to determine its authenticity and will nod my head in agreement.
Given the dolts, dunces and dips that I am told have gained admission to the place beyond the pearly gates I am perfectly happy to take my sun loving body to a place where the weather is warmer.
Besides I grew up in the San Fernando Valley and lived in Texas-heat doesn’t scare or particularly bother me.
What does bother me are the graduation pictures and talk albeit not enough to not appreciate or be happy for those engaging in it.
We all take different paths and most zig zag and or circle up the mountainside. There are really straight lines or paths and since success is a journey there is little reason to be more than momentarily irritated.
Life has beaten certain truths into me such as the plans we don’t make are often those we get to enjoy in full but whether enjoy means smile or endure varies upon person and circumstance.
The beauty of being 50 isn’t that I didn’t get to celebrate my birthday as I had once hoped and or planned to but that you gain a certain amount of perspective that cannot be derived without life experience.
It is why I look at chunks of time and evaluate things based upon smaller periods.
For example if you go back 10 years you’ll find a frustrated version of myself who was desperately fighting to secure and keep what I had worked so hard to achieve.
Ultimately my best efforts didn’t work and I had to cut my losses. It changed me and the family and in many ways lead to life in Texas.
I never really expected to live in Texas and was pleasantly surprised by how good things were the first go around here.
Hell, If I was prescient or had the common sense to have asked the Magic 8 ball I never would have left. It could have and probably would have saved a lot of grief.
Or maybe not.
That is the thing, I am not clairvoyant and it is possible some of the hell that came after I left the first time would have been avoided.
Can’t say for certain and won’t ever know, but occasionally will wonder.
I am not sure when I hit the wall but I know that I must be depleted because I haven’t powered through the obstacles and people as I normally would.
Things that would normally be of minor irritation have been more difficult and presented more challenges than I would have anticipated.
My sleep is typically solid but exhaustion hits out of nowhere and I find myself swimming through rougher waters that are filled with sea creatures that nip at my body
The moments pass and I feel my energy levels surge back to where I expect and I look skywards and shake my head.
Somewhere my old man is telling me not to let this slow me down, especially on his account but it doesn’t matter.
Because whatever has taken a chunk out of my ass keeps coming back for more.
There was a night not long ago where I walked through an empty neighborhood at long past midnight and well before dawn because I figured whatever was looking for me ought to find me in my best humor.
I heard the pounding of the footsteps and whirled around with my fists clenched knowing that I was going to throw a combination that at worst would stagger the person following me and at best would break their jaw and leave them sprawled in the street.
It was a great plan and well executed.
All the time spent working on the bag made the move smooth, effortless and powerful. Would have been great if it had connected with flesh and not passed through shadow.
Would have.
Could have.
Wasn’t.
Fortunately I was perfectly balanced and the force I put into it didn’t pull me off of my feet, not because it would have been embarrassing but because the nicks, scrapes and bruises that show up at 50 are the kind of bad guests that don’t leave promptly.
Things will get better and easier.
It will improve.
But not overnight.
