Something Worrisome This Way Comes
I’m not quite sure what to make of this, other than the obvious. I hate the obvious.
But I collapsed into my recliner on Tuesday night around 8pm, following our usual date night at Aca Las Tortas, and slept for three hours, then straight to bed, and then up at the usual time. And then I had crazy-person energy yesterday. Best I’ve felt in six weeks, easily.
I spent the morning writing, and doing various online stuff that needed doing (updating bank accounts, paying bills, etc.). Cleaning the kitchen a little. Checking in with the patient. Showering and shaving.
And then I went and got a haircut, first time in three months. My hair is in an awkward stage, not unusual for many men of my age, although there are variables. It has pigment, for one thing; you can find gray in there under harsh sunlight or with perfectly corrected vision, but the general appearance is brown.
And I’m not at wispy stage yet, or it depends. There’s a lot of wisp. I’m just saying that I can still run a brush through it without drawing blood. From the front, my hair looks like hair. From the top or back, the illusion starts to fade.
So I wondered if it was time to cut my losses and buzz it, take it down to a nubble so it’s easy to manage and looks at least neat, if not so hairy. My wife has always been opposed to this, even though it’s a pretty common look. Lots of shaved heads, too. I understand, but c’mon. We all age. This isn’t the result of bad behavior or ignorant hair care. I suppose it could have been hastened by poor nutrition or something, but I’m 60. Dwindling hair is not unexpected.
But the stylist, slightly younger than my daughter and with the demeanor of highly skilled professional (she reminded me of one of the young residents I ran across in the hospital), discussed all of this with me, tossed in her own father as an example, and then noted that I wasn’t quite ready for the buzz. She just shortened it a bit more, and I made an appointment for four weeks in case I change my mind and want to look like The Rock (and who doesn’t).
The point was, I got a freaking haircut. With a long history of procrastination about this particular habit, I got a haircut.
And then I went to Costco and ordered a new pair of glasses, literally two months after I got my Rx. I swear, I have to pull my glasses off and on all the time, just to read or see what I need to, and it’s getting ridiculous. Not only that, but I got much lighter frames (also rounder, like Harry Potter, which may have been a mistake), although not wire frames. Just lighter, saving my poor ears the wear and tear of this particular pair.
And THEN---I went and bought a new pair of shoes. Just sneakers, since my old ones were getting holes, even with the decreased exercise this winter and spring.
Then I went to choir, and that was my day, aren’t you glad I shared.
The point should be obvious, as I mentioned. For the first time in what is now approaching two months, I actually had a chance to take care of things that desperately need taking care of. I had a sense of accomplishment, and it strikes me as dangerous.
I mean, I just got a haircut. Bought some shoes, finally ordered new glasses. The kind of things you do on a day off. I’m a procrastinator, no question, and I’ll always let certain things slide, but none of these things was hard to accomplish. Finding the time to accomplish them was another thing.
I’ll take the good feelings. I’m looking forward to less pain and better vision from my glasses. I’m ready to take those shoes out on the road, looking spiffy with my sparse but neatly cut hair.
But the truth? If you pardon my language (please, some of you anyway), I’m fucked. Aware that this could just be a mood, even a mood coming after a really good day, I still don’t have a good feeling about this.
I’m not alone. I happen to know other people, in fact, who’ve found themselves in this position. You help out a neighbor who has some health problems, do the best you can to be a useful friend, and you turn around and have become de facto caregiver.
This won’t happen, but when it reaches a point that it won’t happen anymore, I have a feeling it’s going to be ugly. I never thought Lent was about getting touchy-feely, anyway. I thought it was about truth.
I can handle the truth. I’m not sure I can handle the aftermath.