Skip to main content

BEING A CERTAIN AGE

When you reach a certain age, the activities of your youth, the folly of being young, the derring-do attitude of days gone-by that resulted in all manner of bumps, bruises and broken limbs, tend to haunt you. This is especially so upon waking.

The last few weeks have taken a particularly tasking toll on me. The damp weather, the up and down temperatures; one day its winter, the next, a forty degree rise in temperature, and then two days later it’s fifteen degrees cooler and rainy. The intense political climate and the churned up existential angst accompanying it, is partly responsible as well, I am sure.

Back issues, shoulder surgery, knee surgery, all my joints that ever experienced acute articulation from decades studying martial arts, make it impossible for me to spring out of bed and get stuck into the days activities. It has, I must admit, been sometime since I have sprung into anything, at anytime of day or night.

Oh, there are medications. That too comes with being a certain age, (which, by the way, and comparatively speaking, is not that old). A pill for blood pressure, a pill for cholesterol, a pill so I don’t wake up five times during the night to piss, and so on. Pain medications are not my favorite. They give me bad headaches and nausea. Also, I am still a workingman, and the nature of my employment requires drug testing and prohibits me from working if I take certain medications prescribed by my doctor.

Meandering trains of thought are another aspect of being a certain age, but I am coming to my point.

Last night, I had a dream. I dreamt that there was a marijuana strain that elevated one’s mood and reduced pain without being detectable as a cannabinoid. In my dream, my wife offered me this, though now that I am awake, I cannot be sure it was her or if I was remembering my youth. In any case, I vaped it. And immediately, I was in a better mood and free from pain! The beauty of it all was that it would go undetected in any drug screen, and this I was very happy about for I c
ould remain employed.

This dream kept me sleeping all night long. I slept in, as a matter of fact. When I woke up, I didn’t spring out of bed, but I didn’t have near the symptoms I had been complaining about for the last few weeks. I took the dog for a long walk, got ready for work, made my lunch, read a bit and only now, as I am about to leave for work, is the mild euphoria of my dream fading…

I am home from work now and I can attest to the fact that the effects of the dream wore off many hours ago. Two bourbons, a bite to eat, the news, and it's off to bed where I do hope someone will offer me the undetectable, euphoric, and pain reducing herb once more....



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

21st CENTURY QUIXOTIC MAN

Maybe I'm old, but I find it increasingly more difficult to gather legitimate informative news articles. Sources are questionable, I fact check, but then the integrity of the fact checkers is called into question. I have a job, a family, and other interests. I am busy trying to live my life. When I'm on the net, especially Facebook, it is in between tasks and I'm on the move. I am not writing a doctoral dissertation, merely commenting on something that catches my eye. Yes, I get caught up in defending my opinion. And it is hard to admit that it is only opinion; I have no access to state information, I have no poli-sci degree, I'm just commenting about what I read. If I had expertise or knowledge no one else had I would get myself into a position where I could employ my specific set of skills and knowledge to effect change. I wouldn't spend hours on Facebook telling everyone they were being duped. I'm just a blue collar worker close to retirement, tir...

My Mother

My mother has died. That somber fact has me processing thoughts of guilt, love, and my own mortality. I am officially an orphan. My mother was one of the “Railway Children,” those Liverpool kids sent to the countryside to escape the bombing during World War II. She and her sister were sent to Wales and were bounced from household to household, relative to relative, and finally to an orphanage. Dad moved to Canada in 1960 to forge a better a life for us. Before my mum took my sister and I to join him, the family held an “American wake,” a mournful goodbye, as if a loved one had died. Mum left everything and everybody she ever knew to join her husband in the new world. My mother and father worked hard to give us a good life. There were tough times, money was scarce, and there was tension between my parents. Hell, let me be honest, my father hit my mother, I saw it. My mum was sixty when she left my dad. She just walked out with the clothes on her back. That was my mum. Tough. W...

On Being Heard

Is it me or does anyone else think they are not being heard? Doesn't it seem that these days folks don't  listen to what you are saying and instead they prepare a response even while you are still speaking?  I don't know about you but I find this frustrating. This behaviour is sometimes accompanied by the person you are talking with editorializing every few sentences you make which causes you to lose your train of thought. And of course, with the ubiquitous mobile phone, it is hard to tell if the person you are talking with is even listening, they are too busy checking something on FaceBook. But that is not so much an issue of a difference in linguistic styles as it is more about plain bad manners. My linguistic style can be passionate and animated especially if I am talking about something important to me. I don't know if it's my age or if I am not as mentally strong as I should be, but constant editorializing greatly distracts me. I also think that when I am i...