Foibles

I’ve lost a step over the years, in one respect or another.  May I gracefully accept these changes, rather than “rage, rage against the dying of the light”.

First thing – I struggle to remember the names of objects that hold other objects, and so in conversation I usually retreat to the most convenient term “container”.  In the moment, as I gaze at the thing, I search (most often in vain) for box, pot, can, jar, basket, bowl, or whatever the heck it is.  Last year, I got scared a lot by this, fretting over whether I had a case of early onset something-or-other.  In the freshness of 2014, I mostly laugh at myself.

Secondly, and more importantly, I can’t squat.  You know, bend at the knees and go down.  In this bod, it’s just not happening.  On golf course greens, I see folks demonstrate this intricate maneuver to line up their putts.  Why them?  Why not me?  And laughing again, who cares?

I used to enjoy driving at night.  Actually, I still do.  I remember passing cars with confidence as the stars twinkled.  Not now.  I just can’t figure out how far away that oncoming vehicle is.  Which happily slows me down.  So my supposed shortcoming allows me to keep to a gentle rhythm on the roads, and I laugh some more at my good fortune.

For decades, I’ve enjoyed remembering people’s names.  They feel good when I greet them personally.  These days, it’s a mite confusing, especially when I see the person in an unexpected environment.  I often guess wrong.  Maybe I should religiously avoid using any name as we talk, but that feels false.  I want to know and be known.  I wonder if my companion senses my caring for them even if I call Jessica “Martine”.  Hope so (he said, smiling).

I can’t handle big meals anymore.  Small portions please, and far less red meat, if you don’t mind.  Now, c’mon, that isn’t a foible, is it?  More like a wise choice.  Makes my tummy feel good and my mouth turn up at the corners.

Lastly, there’s the ticklish subject of extended nose hairs (right now infinitely longer than my non-existent head hair).  Yesterday, I was thumbing through a catalogue which offered sundry consumer ways to be a better person.  I was especially taken with “The Best Nose Hair Trimmer”, which, you’ll be happy to know, is “the only model with an integrated light that illuminates difficult-to-see areas in the nose”.  Well, heck, I don’t really want one.  I’ll just stand on guard for me with my trusty scissors, and the offending downward-seeking fellows will be eliminated from public view.  (Grin)

And there’s my summary of Brucive deficiencies.  I can live with them.  No problem, mon.

 

 

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