Luck, I have come to realize, is relative. I've already lived a long time, met the sweetest people, slept with the best dogs, looked at the most stunning art and listened to the prettiest music. I'm not bragging, I'm gushing,
Oh, I could rattle off specifics. You would hardly be impressed. One man's trash..., you know.
At the tippy top of my list, though, is knowing just how lucky I am.
A certain maudlin demeanor has set in on my leisurely existence. I cry over Publix commercials, natural disasters, left-over dog hair and Luke The Drifter records. I should be ashamed to tell you how excited I am about "God Friended Me" starting a new season. I am, but not much.
Maybe I'll get through the evening news with a Champagne Kir Royale and wait for a good Subaru ad to come on.
There was a time when my every waking thought was about cars. Well, to be honest, there was the occasional stray fantasy featuring Brigitte Bardot or one of those peroxide blonde chorus girls from Club Lido, but I could dispose of those with a dose of manual dexterity.
Generally, though, it was all hot rods. By the time that I was legally able to drive, I was on my third car- a 1932 Ford, three window coupe with a Corvette engine. I most certainly would have killed myself except for the fact that it usually wasn't running. I have no mechanical aptitude. That has only been clear to me over the last ten years or so.
Now I drive what is likely to be the last automobile that I will ever own- my Aunt Jo's hand- me-down, 2001 Toyota Camry. What a fall from grace!
I couldn't be more pleased with myself.
What is it about men and cars? Men and guns? Men and war? What is it about men?
Everybody needs more love. It all seems so very simple. Somehow we seem to have created grand problems to make life difficult and painful for that path from birth to the grave. Worse, we have dragged all other creatures along.
After that first bite, we just couldn't put that apple down. From "Great googly moogly, she's naked!" to " I believe a half million smackers should get my kid into U.S.C.".
That therapist asked, " Could you consider that you're more sentimental than she is?"
There may be no more daunting a task than to make up a "thank you" list. Looks like I may never win an oscar. Sad as that makes me, it's a big load off of my mind. My teachers and mentors, partners, bosses, relatives, lovers, roommates, wives, friends, gurus and neighbors make a list that is unwieldy. Add in dogs and cats, goldfish and assorted rodents and reptiles, and I have a list that nobody has the patience to abide.
You know who you are.
Most likely I have never thanked you properly. Acknowledging my social awkwardness, I will make no excuse. I have a sustained debt of gratitude that is no burden at all. It is an honor.
Don't think I don't know that you risked plenty to back me up; that you could have hired someone easier; that I'm difficult. Now, I'm aware that the dogs and cats and most of the relatives were in a more precarious position- not to mention the wives.
Oh, I know why you performed with me and I knew all along why I was invited to your party. Maybe I didn't say anything because I didn't want to embarrass you.
Yeah, I know. That's not it.
Keep an eye on me. I'm doing the best I can. I love you.
Well, sir, everything seems to be making sense and I'm not buying green bananas. I suppose that if you have a life plan, the plan has an end. Of course, I've never had a plan and I'm not likely to devise one now.
The benefit, if there is a benefit, to this aging stuff is that nobody will be surprised when I kick a bucket.
I suppose I should have paid more attention along the way, but I'll be darned if I can tell you why.
