What would you have done? Walking through the library parking lot while returning to my car, I noticed four or five young children and a lady hovering over an elderly gentleman lying on the ground next to his car. It appeared as if they were trying to help him stand up but were having no luck. I quickly walked over and before anything else I talked to him. I asked him if he was okay- if anything hurt- while looking for signs of injury or discomfort. It appeared that he was more embarrassed than anything else. Continue reading “After The Fall”
Why can’t real life be like downloading files where you get to see a progress display of how far it has gone, how much more to go and an estimated time it will take to get you to the promised land? I’m not talking about the big picture where you want to know how many more years left to your life. Even if you were at that age eligible to join AARP and were told that you have another 30 to 40 years yet on this planet, you’d start doing the countdown, selling all your assets and going into a deep funk. No one wants to know when it is time to check out to that big condo in the sky.
I’m talking about those of us who are members of the Patience Haters Club. In order to stay cool, calm and collected at all times, we need artificial pacifiers that help us get through the rough moments of not knowing. Like pushing the button for the elevator and not seeing an indicator that lets me know what floor it is on and being able to watch it inch the indicator light towards my floor number. Or being able to quickly determine if the elevator that stops on my floor is going up or down.
Or sitting at a stop light that seems to be out of rhythm with traffic flow as I keep looking at the cross light waiting for the damn green to switch to yellow as notice to get ready to ram my foot on the accelerator. Or sitting on the phone listening to an innocuous presentation of loud and unappealing music while waiting for the customer service person to pick up. The better companies have systems that inform you that you are third in the queue with an estimated wait of two minutes. Even if it is lying through its robotic teeth, at least you have something to hang your hat on. The wait doesn’t seem so bad knowing that you haven’t been forgotten.
I’m one to rely on expiration dates on food labels at the grocery store. I will not buy anything past an expiration date even if it is discounted. My doctor says that I can take aspirin type pills sitting in the medicine cabinet several months past expiration. Easy for him to say- he ain’t taking it.
It would probably be the best for both parties involved if they could publish expiration dates on relationships. When you start dating someone seriously, it may be a good idea for both to put in writing how long it is going to last, including the marriage. This way, it won’t come as a shock and psychological issue to deal with when it ends in break up or divorce. A progress display would be great if it could then indicate “four months into it, three months left.” And if something occurs that was not planned, it would inform you, “relationship has either crashed or frozen. Please reboot your life.”
While going to school as a kid, you constantly receive progress displays. You know how far you’ve gone and what you have left to learn. However, no one tells you the truth about what to do after you’ve finished school. That’s like getting off the elevator and not knowing where you want to go. The truth is that education is a lifetime process. The progress display never ends until you do. No expiration date printed on the label of getting schooled about life.
And so far I haven’t found a reason to join AARP. Maybe it’s because I still see that the arrow has not reached the downside yet.
Remember when Peter Pan enthralled a generation of baby boomers with “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up” in the 1950’s and 60’s? Well, I’m still living the dream. Here I am in my mid fifties’ (okay, late fifties) and I still act the way I did thirty years ago. Immature you say? Nah, just a free spirit with a blend of impishness to go.
As I get older, younger people look at me and think of me as cranky. It’s like the average middle class guy who does weird things and people call him crazy. He wins the lottery and then all of a sudden he is called eccentric. I’m cranky because I have developed a lifetime of piques and interests and don’t care if other people share them or not. When I do what I want to do, act as I please, all of a sudden I am cranky. If I went in the other direction and just tried to please everyone but myself, they would say I have low self-esteem. Hey, esteem comes out of a radiator (sorry). It’s like that old song, “I do something to me, something that really mystifies me.” Okay, that’s not exactly how it goes, but I sounds it better. It’s like the schizophrenic who walks out of a psychiatrist’s office singing, “I gotta be me, and me, I gotta be me, and me.”
Continue reading “I’m Not Getting Older, I’m Getting Crankier”