Remember yesterday when I said that I was going to make an effort to waste less time, and to keep track of the time I did waste?
Forget it. I won't be able to keep track of that much time. Today was pretty much a complete waste.
And so it goes...
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Talkin' Trash
I am sitting at my computer right now, and watching the minutes tick by second by second on a spyware scan, and the thought strikes me: Just how much time do I waste each day doing such things? Not so much the doing, since it is necessary, but in just sitting and watching it being done?
I wasted 16 minutes during that scan. I could have washed the dishes, or started some laundry, or taken a shower, or made a sandwich, or called a friend. But instead, I sat idly staring at the computer screen, willing the timer to go faster. Yet, I bemoan the days that move too fast, the years that flash by like instants.
Time is a subjective thing, but sometimes we allow outside influences to take time away from us. Too often, it is time wasted--and we have so little time to us.
When was the last time any of us allowed an outside influence to give time to us, to make a night seem to last forever, or a good time to never end? More often than not, it is only the time we spend doing onerous chores or in pain that seem eternal.
I am going to make an effort this week to keep track of time that I waste, time that I reclaim, and time that I have no control over. I'll keep you posted--later.
And so it goes...
I wasted 16 minutes during that scan. I could have washed the dishes, or started some laundry, or taken a shower, or made a sandwich, or called a friend. But instead, I sat idly staring at the computer screen, willing the timer to go faster. Yet, I bemoan the days that move too fast, the years that flash by like instants.
Time is a subjective thing, but sometimes we allow outside influences to take time away from us. Too often, it is time wasted--and we have so little time to us.
When was the last time any of us allowed an outside influence to give time to us, to make a night seem to last forever, or a good time to never end? More often than not, it is only the time we spend doing onerous chores or in pain that seem eternal.
I am going to make an effort this week to keep track of time that I waste, time that I reclaim, and time that I have no control over. I'll keep you posted--later.
And so it goes...
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
The Rest of It...
Time passes, and sometimes we don’t even note it as it does. But there are milestones to every life…and one is occurring today.
My brother is having a birthday today. Whether he’s celebrating it, or just marking its passing with regret, it’s happening…and he’s 52 years old.
I told my son in jest that his uncle was an ‘old fart’, but I’m not that far behind him—so I really can’t say a lot about that.
We all get older with each passing day; the trick is in staying as young as possible where it really matters: in our hearts, and between our ears. Stay young there, and the aging travails of the body will be less pressing. Stay young there, and laughter can be a true friend.
Stay young there, and death will come as a surprise—one not wholly welcome (death rarely is), but one that can be taken with grace, and perhaps a smile to cap off a life well lived.
And so it goes…
My brother is having a birthday today. Whether he’s celebrating it, or just marking its passing with regret, it’s happening…and he’s 52 years old.
I told my son in jest that his uncle was an ‘old fart’, but I’m not that far behind him—so I really can’t say a lot about that.
We all get older with each passing day; the trick is in staying as young as possible where it really matters: in our hearts, and between our ears. Stay young there, and the aging travails of the body will be less pressing. Stay young there, and laughter can be a true friend.
Stay young there, and death will come as a surprise—one not wholly welcome (death rarely is), but one that can be taken with grace, and perhaps a smile to cap off a life well lived.
And so it goes…
Monday, August 21, 2006
Just a word...
Sunlight is pouring into my den as I write this; early evening sunshine that is golden and green-hued as its rays filter through the leaves of the maple tree by the deck.
I am getting tired, but it’s been a good day. Got some new toys in the mail (always good for us guys), and the kids were in especially good moods—my son because his girlfriend is back from vacation, my daughter because she made $70 in tips at her job.
But now they are gone. He is at his friends house, she at her mom’s. So now it’s time to close this, and go take a pre-work nap.
Tomorrow is my night off, and I can hardly wait; it’s been a long time in coming, and I’m ready.
And so it goes…
I am getting tired, but it’s been a good day. Got some new toys in the mail (always good for us guys), and the kids were in especially good moods—my son because his girlfriend is back from vacation, my daughter because she made $70 in tips at her job.
But now they are gone. He is at his friends house, she at her mom’s. So now it’s time to close this, and go take a pre-work nap.
Tomorrow is my night off, and I can hardly wait; it’s been a long time in coming, and I’m ready.
And so it goes…
The Time(s) of Our Lives
Just the other day, one of my 50-something co-workers said to me, “The 70’s were the best time of my life.”
Huh? Is his life over? Or is it so bad now that he is looking back nostalgically at what was a good time for him?
Who can say that they have had the “best time of their life” when their life isn’t over? I’ve had a lot of good times, and a lot of bad times, and a lot that fall in between…but the “best” time? I don’t know. I could rate what’s happened to me so far, and come up with a favorite or “best” time, but how do I know that it is the best time of my life?
Maybe on my deathbed I’ll be able to make that comparison, and point to a time that was best…since nothing else good will be coming my way if I’m dying. But to do that now, at 47? Can’t do it.
The best time of my life may still be yet to come…and I wouldn’t want to miss it because I thought that the best had already been.
The jury’s still out on this one…and I’m in no hurry to be knocking at Death’s door—and wondering simultaneously just what my best time had been.
Live each day to the fullest, and maybe at the end of your life, you’ll be able to look back and say to yourself: “Those were the best times—my life!”
And so it goes…
Huh? Is his life over? Or is it so bad now that he is looking back nostalgically at what was a good time for him?
Who can say that they have had the “best time of their life” when their life isn’t over? I’ve had a lot of good times, and a lot of bad times, and a lot that fall in between…but the “best” time? I don’t know. I could rate what’s happened to me so far, and come up with a favorite or “best” time, but how do I know that it is the best time of my life?
Maybe on my deathbed I’ll be able to make that comparison, and point to a time that was best…since nothing else good will be coming my way if I’m dying. But to do that now, at 47? Can’t do it.
The best time of my life may still be yet to come…and I wouldn’t want to miss it because I thought that the best had already been.
The jury’s still out on this one…and I’m in no hurry to be knocking at Death’s door—and wondering simultaneously just what my best time had been.
Live each day to the fullest, and maybe at the end of your life, you’ll be able to look back and say to yourself: “Those were the best times—my life!”
And so it goes…
Monday, August 14, 2006
Tick..tick..tick...
Does the body know when it’s time is up? Does our internal clock have an alarm that tells us when the clock stops ticking?
Sometimes I feel like my clock is running down…maybe the intimations of mortality that I feel are nothing more than my body telling me I’m done…so stick a fork in me!
Other times, I think that I’m just afraid of dying, so my morbid fascination couples with my imagination to make me feel the icy cold finger of death brushing my soul…making my breath come short…squeezing a vise around my heart.
I guess I’ll know soon enough either way. If I continue to blog regularly, you can assume that I’m still alive.
If my blog stops abruptly, and never resumes, you can assume that the alarm went off, and the mainspring of my life has wound down…forever.
And so it goes…
Sometimes I feel like my clock is running down…maybe the intimations of mortality that I feel are nothing more than my body telling me I’m done…so stick a fork in me!
Other times, I think that I’m just afraid of dying, so my morbid fascination couples with my imagination to make me feel the icy cold finger of death brushing my soul…making my breath come short…squeezing a vise around my heart.
I guess I’ll know soon enough either way. If I continue to blog regularly, you can assume that I’m still alive.
If my blog stops abruptly, and never resumes, you can assume that the alarm went off, and the mainspring of my life has wound down…forever.
And so it goes…
Saturday, August 12, 2006
The Fittest (A Story)
The scenario goes round in my head…
It is mid-October, and the nights are cold, even if the days still harbor a residual warmth that evokes Spring or late Summer. But that feeling of impending Winter is in the air, and those of us in our small group who can face the truth know that the end of easily livable weather is soon upon us.
It is with this in mind that we begin to prepare for the first Winter since the EMP took out everything that we of the 21st century had come to take for granted.
What little electricity we have is generated for us by a couple of windmills that spin the turbines inside two Chrysler alternators; the voltage regulators are wired up to a series of Delco batteries that power a few 12 volt lights, and our all-important radios. The ancient tube-based AM/FM/Short-wave is on auto-scan, and rarely does it settle on any one frequency for long. Static hisses quietly from the speaker like steam rising from the corpse of our country in the chilly night air. The sideband radio is silent. We are not even sure if it works. We are all but locked in for the night.
Aunt Kathy calls me over to help her load a five-gallon water bottle onto the dispenser; she rations it, but cannot lift it—she’s always looked like a refugee from Auschwitz, but her personality is considerably stronger than her physical being. I heft the 60 pound bottle onto the cooler, and she makes a mark at the level of the water.
Outside, Tom is gathering up the 15 or so pieces of wood from the pile for the night’s fire. He chooses wisely, picking 3 pieces of pine to start the fire, 3 pieces of dry hardwood to get it hot, and the rest is greenwood to burn slow and keep the coals burning through the night.
We congregrate in the basement room. It is roughly 15’ by 25’—a large room, but with thirteen of us and our cots in there, it is crowded. Tom starts the fire in the conical fireplace, and within minutes, the damp chill is gone. Kathy dispenses out water in eight ounce cups, but no one drinks. We are waiting for the stew which bubbles in the pot over the camp stove.
An hour later, with our meal finished, the dishes wiped clean, our water ration finished, and latrine trips done, we bed down. Tom sits in the dim firelight, occasionally stirring the coals and adjusting the damper on the fireplace. I look into my woman’s eyes, and they look black in the gloom, though I know that they are a brilliant cobalt by sunlight. She kisses me lightly, and pulls the blanket over her head. Not tired, I sit next to her with my hand resting lightly on the small of her back. I love her, and miss privacy.
Glory takes the first watch. She is huddled inside a poncho and wool blanket at the head of the stairs, keeping her eyes fixed on the glass of the door behind the security bars. What little warmth reaches her from the basement is not enough to keep her fingers warm, so she wears gloves on her hands to ensure that her trigger finger will not be stiff or numb should she need it. And we pray that she doesn’t.
***************************
We use the whole house by day. Many of the rooms have been converted to storage. The trappings of the electronic age still linger, poignant reminders of what we have lost. The shelves that once held a thousand DVDs now hold canned goods and books. The entertainment center, made of solid oak, has long since been broken up for firewood. The television, microwave, and stereo are in a pile behind the shed, along with other useless electronics.
Most of the books are in the smaller room in the basement. Piles of them are on the floor, and wall to wall shelves are filled with them. We keep them in the basesment because it is cool and dry—and because, come Winter, it is the only part of the house that will be kept consistently heated. Mold and mildew will be kept at bay, and the books, at least, should last.
The second story spare bedroom holds clothing. We have crates marked with type of clothing, sizes, and seasons. We have shoes and boots in the sizes that we need—at least two replacements for each of us.
In the kitchen, there are two Franklin stoves that we ‘liberated’ from a local supply store. These are kept burning night and day, and impart a little warmth now that the nights grow cold. It is on these that we do most of the cooking.
The kitchen cupboards are filled with dry and canned goods; the pantry holds more still. The stove has been moved out of the house. It took up too much room, and the Franklins sit black and heavy in its place, their pipes standing straight before curving out through the wall. The fire tiles beneath them are stained and sooty, but we can spare little water for cleaning.
The refrigerator is still in place. It’s insulated interior keeps things fresh for a day or two longer than just letting them sit out, so it has not entirely outlived its usefulness.
The other rooms of the house hold a hodgepodge of furniture, crates of food, fuel, and firearms. We are prepared for a siege—but everyday is part of that siege. We are besieged by the world, these days; each day brings another challenge.
***************************
It is morning. I roll out of my cot, and kiss Tam-tam on the cheek. Creaking and groaning, I walk quietly around my sleeping companions and up the stairs. Glory looks at me and smiles, her eyes weary but still alert. I tell her to go lay down, and she gratefully unwraps herself from the blanket, leaning her rifle against the wall behind the door.
I brace myself, and pop open the door. The morning chill assaults me, making me shiver as I use the latrine. I walk across the deck to the garage, open the door, and check the charge on the batteries. I connect two more to the series, and attach the leads to the second regulator. This is my job—to make sure that the little electricity we have is enough to last. I may start looking for a solar charger soon. Windless days are a disaster for me.
I close the garage on my way out. Seth is using the latrine, so I avert my eyes and make a big deal of lighting a stale cigar. Clouds of blue smoke envelope me, dissipating in the bright, clear morning air.
Another day has begun.
Sometimes I wonder why we continue. Other days I’m just too busy to care.
And so it goes.
It is mid-October, and the nights are cold, even if the days still harbor a residual warmth that evokes Spring or late Summer. But that feeling of impending Winter is in the air, and those of us in our small group who can face the truth know that the end of easily livable weather is soon upon us.
It is with this in mind that we begin to prepare for the first Winter since the EMP took out everything that we of the 21st century had come to take for granted.
What little electricity we have is generated for us by a couple of windmills that spin the turbines inside two Chrysler alternators; the voltage regulators are wired up to a series of Delco batteries that power a few 12 volt lights, and our all-important radios. The ancient tube-based AM/FM/Short-wave is on auto-scan, and rarely does it settle on any one frequency for long. Static hisses quietly from the speaker like steam rising from the corpse of our country in the chilly night air. The sideband radio is silent. We are not even sure if it works. We are all but locked in for the night.
Aunt Kathy calls me over to help her load a five-gallon water bottle onto the dispenser; she rations it, but cannot lift it—she’s always looked like a refugee from Auschwitz, but her personality is considerably stronger than her physical being. I heft the 60 pound bottle onto the cooler, and she makes a mark at the level of the water.
Outside, Tom is gathering up the 15 or so pieces of wood from the pile for the night’s fire. He chooses wisely, picking 3 pieces of pine to start the fire, 3 pieces of dry hardwood to get it hot, and the rest is greenwood to burn slow and keep the coals burning through the night.
We congregrate in the basement room. It is roughly 15’ by 25’—a large room, but with thirteen of us and our cots in there, it is crowded. Tom starts the fire in the conical fireplace, and within minutes, the damp chill is gone. Kathy dispenses out water in eight ounce cups, but no one drinks. We are waiting for the stew which bubbles in the pot over the camp stove.
An hour later, with our meal finished, the dishes wiped clean, our water ration finished, and latrine trips done, we bed down. Tom sits in the dim firelight, occasionally stirring the coals and adjusting the damper on the fireplace. I look into my woman’s eyes, and they look black in the gloom, though I know that they are a brilliant cobalt by sunlight. She kisses me lightly, and pulls the blanket over her head. Not tired, I sit next to her with my hand resting lightly on the small of her back. I love her, and miss privacy.
Glory takes the first watch. She is huddled inside a poncho and wool blanket at the head of the stairs, keeping her eyes fixed on the glass of the door behind the security bars. What little warmth reaches her from the basement is not enough to keep her fingers warm, so she wears gloves on her hands to ensure that her trigger finger will not be stiff or numb should she need it. And we pray that she doesn’t.
***************************
We use the whole house by day. Many of the rooms have been converted to storage. The trappings of the electronic age still linger, poignant reminders of what we have lost. The shelves that once held a thousand DVDs now hold canned goods and books. The entertainment center, made of solid oak, has long since been broken up for firewood. The television, microwave, and stereo are in a pile behind the shed, along with other useless electronics.
Most of the books are in the smaller room in the basement. Piles of them are on the floor, and wall to wall shelves are filled with them. We keep them in the basesment because it is cool and dry—and because, come Winter, it is the only part of the house that will be kept consistently heated. Mold and mildew will be kept at bay, and the books, at least, should last.
The second story spare bedroom holds clothing. We have crates marked with type of clothing, sizes, and seasons. We have shoes and boots in the sizes that we need—at least two replacements for each of us.
In the kitchen, there are two Franklin stoves that we ‘liberated’ from a local supply store. These are kept burning night and day, and impart a little warmth now that the nights grow cold. It is on these that we do most of the cooking.
The kitchen cupboards are filled with dry and canned goods; the pantry holds more still. The stove has been moved out of the house. It took up too much room, and the Franklins sit black and heavy in its place, their pipes standing straight before curving out through the wall. The fire tiles beneath them are stained and sooty, but we can spare little water for cleaning.
The refrigerator is still in place. It’s insulated interior keeps things fresh for a day or two longer than just letting them sit out, so it has not entirely outlived its usefulness.
The other rooms of the house hold a hodgepodge of furniture, crates of food, fuel, and firearms. We are prepared for a siege—but everyday is part of that siege. We are besieged by the world, these days; each day brings another challenge.
***************************
It is morning. I roll out of my cot, and kiss Tam-tam on the cheek. Creaking and groaning, I walk quietly around my sleeping companions and up the stairs. Glory looks at me and smiles, her eyes weary but still alert. I tell her to go lay down, and she gratefully unwraps herself from the blanket, leaning her rifle against the wall behind the door.
I brace myself, and pop open the door. The morning chill assaults me, making me shiver as I use the latrine. I walk across the deck to the garage, open the door, and check the charge on the batteries. I connect two more to the series, and attach the leads to the second regulator. This is my job—to make sure that the little electricity we have is enough to last. I may start looking for a solar charger soon. Windless days are a disaster for me.
I close the garage on my way out. Seth is using the latrine, so I avert my eyes and make a big deal of lighting a stale cigar. Clouds of blue smoke envelope me, dissipating in the bright, clear morning air.
Another day has begun.
Sometimes I wonder why we continue. Other days I’m just too busy to care.
And so it goes.
Spending Time
In three years or so, my household will change drastically. The kids will be out of high school and off to college or elsewhere…and then what?
Never before (well, at least in the past 25 years) will I have been without daily, kid-related activities. Then, without warning almost—because the time seems to pass so swiftly—I will have free time on my hands.
How will this affect my relationship with my wife? With my friends? With myself? What will I do with all of this ‘free’ time?
And how do you spend something so free?
And so it goes…
Never before (well, at least in the past 25 years) will I have been without daily, kid-related activities. Then, without warning almost—because the time seems to pass so swiftly—I will have free time on my hands.
How will this affect my relationship with my wife? With my friends? With myself? What will I do with all of this ‘free’ time?
And how do you spend something so free?
And so it goes…
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Talkin' 'bout Talkin'
We were travelin’, on vacation
To a cabin far from home,
But the cell phone kept on ringin’
‘cuz my plan gives us free roamin’.
My daughter had to talk a lot
To the friends she’d left in town
Just when one call would be over
Her nasty ringtone would give sound.
Chattin’ with one, then another,
I never thought that it would end,
Until her battery life was down to naught,
She would dial and then press ‘send’.
After a day or two of listenin’
I have to say I was pretty pissed
Time after time I contemplated
Making out a cell phone usage list.
I couldn’t get that kid to stop
Her incessant talk and chatter
But with her attitude to me
I guess it really wouldn’t matter.
You see, if she is always talking
On her cell phone to her friends
I don’t have to put up with her shit—
And this is where this story ends…
And so it goes…
To a cabin far from home,
But the cell phone kept on ringin’
‘cuz my plan gives us free roamin’.
My daughter had to talk a lot
To the friends she’d left in town
Just when one call would be over
Her nasty ringtone would give sound.
Chattin’ with one, then another,
I never thought that it would end,
Until her battery life was down to naught,
She would dial and then press ‘send’.
After a day or two of listenin’
I have to say I was pretty pissed
Time after time I contemplated
Making out a cell phone usage list.
I couldn’t get that kid to stop
Her incessant talk and chatter
But with her attitude to me
I guess it really wouldn’t matter.
You see, if she is always talking
On her cell phone to her friends
I don’t have to put up with her shit—
And this is where this story ends…
And so it goes…
A "Deed" Now Done
Hey! New/old book alert!
I hate fantasy. By fantasy, I mean that tripe that publishers like Tor books (distributors of Dungeons and Dragons) put out—the kind of fantasy where magic and reality mix willy-nilly, where things like the inverse square law allow gigantic creatures to ignore gravity and mass (maybe because of all that magic?); fantasy where the plot has absolutely no bearing on what goes on in the story, because there are too many poorly played out battles between orcs, dragons, giants, and all manner of creatures.
Into this category, I would like to not place books like The Dragonriders of Pern by Anne McCaffrey, which on the face may seem like fantasy, but if you read the entire series, is merely fantastical science fiction. Also, the Shannara series by Terry Brooks is less fantasy than allegory, and a possible view of what our future may bring.
And finally, there is The Deed of Paksennarion by Elizabeth Moon. Originally published as three separate books, it is compiled in a 600,000 word trilogy volume that held this reader’s interest throughout.
The book follows Paksennarion Dorthansdotter (Paks), a young woman raised on a sheep farm who has been raised hearing tales of warriors, paladins, and heroes. She runs away to join a mercenary company—and this is where the true magic of this story lies.
Elizabeth Moon has woven a tale full of battles and gentle, earth-based magic, but her strength lies in the development of Paks through her training and combat experience. The training sequences (lengthy) are well-thought out, and realistic. Paks is not a natural warrior, but she is dedicated to her goals, and works very hard to live up to her training.
The battle sequences are brutal and gory, not because of sensationalism, but because that’s what battles fought with swords, pikes, bows, and lances are like.
Yes, there is magic enough in this book to keep the fantasy fans happy—but it is magic that could occur if immortal elves existed, if kuakugans lived in groves where they helped the living things of the earth bind everything together; a land where orcs wended there subhuman culture on the outskirts of the more civilized lands; and where paladins and followers of St. Gird were able to tap into the power of the land to heal the wounded and defeat evil.
Fantasy? Sure. Great story? You bet. As you read this lengthy story, you see character development at its finest as Paks grows, through her experiences, from a simple sheepfarmer’s daughter into a whole, fully realized person.
Highly recommended by a non-fan of fantasy (I’ve never been able to slog my way through the Lord of the Rings series, though I loved the movies).
If you’ve got the time, give it a try.
And so it goes…
I hate fantasy. By fantasy, I mean that tripe that publishers like Tor books (distributors of Dungeons and Dragons) put out—the kind of fantasy where magic and reality mix willy-nilly, where things like the inverse square law allow gigantic creatures to ignore gravity and mass (maybe because of all that magic?); fantasy where the plot has absolutely no bearing on what goes on in the story, because there are too many poorly played out battles between orcs, dragons, giants, and all manner of creatures.
Into this category, I would like to not place books like The Dragonriders of Pern by Anne McCaffrey, which on the face may seem like fantasy, but if you read the entire series, is merely fantastical science fiction. Also, the Shannara series by Terry Brooks is less fantasy than allegory, and a possible view of what our future may bring.
And finally, there is The Deed of Paksennarion by Elizabeth Moon. Originally published as three separate books, it is compiled in a 600,000 word trilogy volume that held this reader’s interest throughout.
The book follows Paksennarion Dorthansdotter (Paks), a young woman raised on a sheep farm who has been raised hearing tales of warriors, paladins, and heroes. She runs away to join a mercenary company—and this is where the true magic of this story lies.
Elizabeth Moon has woven a tale full of battles and gentle, earth-based magic, but her strength lies in the development of Paks through her training and combat experience. The training sequences (lengthy) are well-thought out, and realistic. Paks is not a natural warrior, but she is dedicated to her goals, and works very hard to live up to her training.
The battle sequences are brutal and gory, not because of sensationalism, but because that’s what battles fought with swords, pikes, bows, and lances are like.
Yes, there is magic enough in this book to keep the fantasy fans happy—but it is magic that could occur if immortal elves existed, if kuakugans lived in groves where they helped the living things of the earth bind everything together; a land where orcs wended there subhuman culture on the outskirts of the more civilized lands; and where paladins and followers of St. Gird were able to tap into the power of the land to heal the wounded and defeat evil.
Fantasy? Sure. Great story? You bet. As you read this lengthy story, you see character development at its finest as Paks grows, through her experiences, from a simple sheepfarmer’s daughter into a whole, fully realized person.
Highly recommended by a non-fan of fantasy (I’ve never been able to slog my way through the Lord of the Rings series, though I loved the movies).
If you’ve got the time, give it a try.
And so it goes…
R and R: Revisited
Well, I survived my vacation to the great north woods…and managed to get some of the the rest and relaxation that I desperately needed.
However, I was right that my wife and her brother would want to go go go…and try to drag me with them. “Let’s go swimming,” “Let’s go hiking” “Let’s go to [name of town]” “Let’s do this” “Let’s do that”. And when I said no, and reiterated that I wanted to relax, I got a snide, “Whatever!”
“Whatever”, indeed! I should not have to feel guilty about wanting to relax. I’m 47 years old, I work third shift, and I never get enough sleep. The last thing I want to do on my vacation is run around like a chicken with it’s head cut off.
So, I didn’t. I held firm, and got my relaxation, ignoring the angry glances and sarcastic jibes.
What really got to me during this week of vacation was my wife’s countdown to the end. “Sigh. Four more days and I have to go back to work,” she said our second day there. And the countdown updated several times a day—every day!
Finally, the day before we were to leave, she asked me, “Do you want me to reserve the cabin for next year?”
I smiled at her, shrugged, and said, “You do what you want to, dear. I don’t care, because I’m not coming up here next year. You’re on your own.”
Hey, if nothing else, while she’s up north with her family, I can spend my vacation doing such exciting things as watching the grass grow and feeling my beard come in.
How can I handle such excitement? Easy. All in the name of Relaxation.
And so it goes…
However, I was right that my wife and her brother would want to go go go…and try to drag me with them. “Let’s go swimming,” “Let’s go hiking” “Let’s go to [name of town]” “Let’s do this” “Let’s do that”. And when I said no, and reiterated that I wanted to relax, I got a snide, “Whatever!”
“Whatever”, indeed! I should not have to feel guilty about wanting to relax. I’m 47 years old, I work third shift, and I never get enough sleep. The last thing I want to do on my vacation is run around like a chicken with it’s head cut off.
So, I didn’t. I held firm, and got my relaxation, ignoring the angry glances and sarcastic jibes.
What really got to me during this week of vacation was my wife’s countdown to the end. “Sigh. Four more days and I have to go back to work,” she said our second day there. And the countdown updated several times a day—every day!
Finally, the day before we were to leave, she asked me, “Do you want me to reserve the cabin for next year?”
I smiled at her, shrugged, and said, “You do what you want to, dear. I don’t care, because I’m not coming up here next year. You’re on your own.”
Hey, if nothing else, while she’s up north with her family, I can spend my vacation doing such exciting things as watching the grass grow and feeling my beard come in.
How can I handle such excitement? Easy. All in the name of Relaxation.
And so it goes…
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Dog Days...
My brother is on a much-needed vacation this week, so I will be attempting to fill the void left by his absence from this blog. He's relaxing "up north", and, I hope, enjoying the heat with a cold beer as his company.
Yes, these are indeed "dog days"; when the air is heavy with the promise of thunderstorms that never seem to come. When going outside feels like walking into a sauna. When the slightest exertion leaves your body drained, sweaty, and panting.
As a kid, and a teen, I used to love days like this. Run around endlessly, stopping occasionally to gulp down a half-gallon of cold water, then badk out in the sun. Now, my greater experience (read: age) tells me that on days like this, it is important to rest somewhere cool, drink plenty of fluids, and call lifting a glass of liquid refreshment "exercise".
I miss those carefree days when nothing was serious enough to cause whatever plans we had to be put off until a "better" day. Snow, sub-zero temperatures, thunderstorms, wind, extreme heat--those were just things that had to be allowed for, and not allowed to slow us down in the least. Now, I find myself all too willing to take a long moment to relax; nothing seems quite urgent enough to venture forth in extremes of weather. Any plans that could be made for today can probably be made for tomorrow--or the day after--or next week.
It's an interesting change of perspective that most of us go through; things that should be important, like enjoying our lives, get put on the back burner in favor of "must-do" things, mostly work-related.
We only get one chance at this life. Attempting to enjoy it might be wise, eh?
Yes, these are indeed "dog days"; when the air is heavy with the promise of thunderstorms that never seem to come. When going outside feels like walking into a sauna. When the slightest exertion leaves your body drained, sweaty, and panting.
As a kid, and a teen, I used to love days like this. Run around endlessly, stopping occasionally to gulp down a half-gallon of cold water, then badk out in the sun. Now, my greater experience (read: age) tells me that on days like this, it is important to rest somewhere cool, drink plenty of fluids, and call lifting a glass of liquid refreshment "exercise".
I miss those carefree days when nothing was serious enough to cause whatever plans we had to be put off until a "better" day. Snow, sub-zero temperatures, thunderstorms, wind, extreme heat--those were just things that had to be allowed for, and not allowed to slow us down in the least. Now, I find myself all too willing to take a long moment to relax; nothing seems quite urgent enough to venture forth in extremes of weather. Any plans that could be made for today can probably be made for tomorrow--or the day after--or next week.
It's an interesting change of perspective that most of us go through; things that should be important, like enjoying our lives, get put on the back burner in favor of "must-do" things, mostly work-related.
We only get one chance at this life. Attempting to enjoy it might be wise, eh?
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