In Spite of Myself . . . I’m Okay

At some point I must have passed some imaginary line which precipitated a change in my appearance and the way that others perceive me.  I’m not sure when it happened.  There were no flashing lights.  No blaring horns.  No ringing bells.  Confetti did not fall from the sky.  There wasn’t even a band.  People just treat me differently.  It wasn’t a religious thing . . . a dark night of the soul gig . . . no wandering around in the wilderness . . . no heavenly choir or descending dove.  It was not an epiphany of some sort.

Apparently, it just happened.  I’ve been baffled ever since.

 

I noticed it last week while the wife and I were up north visiting our grandchildren and their parents.  My children were treating me differently.  Showing concern.  Dropping subtle hints.  There was an air of empathy.  The first time it happened was when I attempted to stand up from the couch.  It wasn’t a pretty sight.  I must have groaned as I stood.  I was asked, “Are you okay?”  Well, yeah!  Considering that all the furniture that my children have equipped their homes with is that modern stuff that sits low to the ground.  Whenever I sit on one of their couches my caboose is lower to the ground than my knees.  The human body was not designed to be dragging butt.  It is not easy getting up and out of those couches.  It takes some finagling . . . some superhuman effort, and yes, a little groaning.

 

Yes, I am fine!

 

Over the several days I was up north I got asked that question numerous times each day.  “Are you okay?”  For the most part I let it roll off my shoulders.  Ignored it.  After a while . . . well, it started to irritate me.  Grind on me.  While the wife and I were in the backyard of one of our children’s homes playing with the dogs . . . I snapped.  Tripping over a clump of grass my wife asked, “Are you okay?”  Something inside of me snapped and exploded releasing an avalanche of words: “Dammit!  Yes, I’m okay.  If I get asked that one more time, I’m going to scream!”

 

Oops!  I guess I blew that.  But enough was enough.  The wife placed the stick on the camel’s back that broke it.

 

Since them I have been wondering when I crossed over that imaginary line of decrepitude.  I just don’t remember crossing it.  Seems everyone else has recognized it.  I missed the memo.  I guess everyone has decided to let me know.  So, I ponder . . . what the hell is going on?

 

Okay, I will admit that for some reaching the age I have reached is grounds for having crossed that imaginary line of discrepancy.  Yes, I have aged.  We all do.  I can accept that and all that comes with it.  It’s all there . . . greying hair (of what hair is left), failing eyesight, a Dunlop over the belt, slower reaction time, selective hearing loss, achy bones, sore joints, drooping butt.  Yes, it is all there.  And, if I allow myself to see it there can be no denying it is there.  Yet when I look in the mirror the inner me doesn’t see the aging old fart.  Nope!  I still see Brad Pitt.  Maybe delusion is a part of aging.  But even Brad Pitt is aging.  Despite it all . . . I’m okay!

 

Maybe it is the word “retirement”.  I guess people see that as a sort of “being put out to pasture before heading off to that heavenly meat packing plant”.  A person hits retirement and people treat you differently.  They call you “sir”.  When opening a door you are told, “Let me get that for you, old fellow.”  You get senior discounts and restaurants give you “senior portions”.  You’re encouraged to play pickle ball.  Gifts of books are in large print.  People remind you that Lawrence Welk is on PBS every Saturday evening.  You get spoken to louder because everyone knows that once you hit 40 you’re hard of hearing.

 

“Retirement” is not a death sentence . . . not even a conviction of “old age”.  It is just a cairn marking a place on the journey of life.  And, yes, I’m okay!

 

I am okay.  There is no need to have an ambulance on speed dial.  There is no need to have a hotline to the doctor.  My AARP membership is good for another five years.  I have not been put on the endangered species list.  My orthopedic shoes are in a box, on a shelf, in the closet.  I don’t need hearing aids—at my age if it is worth listening to, I hear it.  I can still tie my own shoes, button my shirts, and wipe my butt.  I mow my yard. I shovel the snow.  I can have coherent conversations.  I can play with my grandchildren.  I tease with the best of them.  And I eventually even remember why I came into a room.  Sure, I moan and groan once in a while, but my pains let me know that I am still alive.

 

Despite my inner self lagging several decades behind my outer reality. I’m still here.  It is okay if the world can’t see Brad Pitt when they see me.  People don’t see me when they look at Brad Pitt.  It is their loss, not mine.  I am not delusional.  I’m way past the mid-life crisis point in my life . . . at least I hope I am because I cannot imagine living life at 132 years old.  I still have the love and affection for my wife that I first had when we fell in love.  I love my children, though they wear me out with the constant “Are you okay?”  My grandchildren are the best and I can throw frisbee all day for my dogs.  And none of the food I eat has been put through the blender.  I still have my own teeth.  I’m still here!  I’m okay!

 

If there was some imaginary line, I crossed over that warranted a change in how people see and treat me . . . well, I missed it.  I apologize to those of you that are offended that I’m living up to some unseen expectations.  It just ain’t going to happen.  You get what you get.  I am who I am.  Better or worse (ask the wife).  That is all there is.

 

Maybe John Prine said it best in his song, In Spite of Ourselves:

 

In spite of ourselves

We’ll end up sittin’ on a rainbow

Against all odds

Honey, were the big door prize

 

Yup, I’ve come to accept myself for who I am, where I am, and who I will always be.  I’m the big door prize no matter what anyone else thinks.

 

I’m okay!

 

Intro Versus Extra—The Canine Personality

We know humans span the range of extraverts and introverts.  We are all somewhere between here and there, leaning one way or the other.  I lean to the introvert side quite a way, while my wife leans heavily to the extravert side.  She needs the excitement and energy of the outside world.  I, on the other hand, thrive on the inner world.  At the same time, we both realize that we are a combination of both.  We identify with the one we see as our strength.  I can survive in the outer world, but it wears me out . . . exhausts me.  For the wife, she thrives and is energized . . . she is revved up . . . raring to go.  She is more balanced in her make up, whereas I lean way to the introvert side and pull myself kicking and screaming into the world of extraverts.

 

It is a scale for us humans.  We are a combination of both.  I have made myself content with how I am.  Those who know and love me respect my being as it is.  At the same time, they lovingly tease me to step out into the chaos of the world and attempt be more extraverted.

 

This we know about humans.  What about our pets?  Ever wonder if your pup or kitty was an “introvert” or “extravert”?  Only recently have I wondered—what are my dogs?  Introverts?  Extraverts?

 

It piqued my curiosity the other day when some popping noises happened in the neighborhood.  A couple of bangs!  Bang!  Suddenly Birdie, our Border Collie/Corgi mix, got anxious.  She started breathing heavily.  She cuddled up against my leg.  She nervously looked around and kept glancing up to me for reassurance.  The nose scared her, and she couldn’t get close enough for some security.

 

Ever since she was a pup she hated loud exploding, pooping, banging noises.  She goes into an anxiety attack.  It is no fun to watch her suffer.  It makes me sad.

 

On the other hand, Quinn—our miniature Dachshund, is unfazed by the noise.  She is practically oblivious to the noise.  Of course she gets her vibes from her older sister, thus she senses the anxiety that Birdie is feeling.

 

From this description one would think that Birdie is an introvert . . . Quinn is an extravert.  Wrong!  It is the opposite.  Quinn is our introverted pup.  Birdie is the extravert.  At least that is how I see them.  The wife might disagree, but we learned long ago that it is best to agree to disagree and move on.

 

The truth of it all is that they are no different than humans.  They are a combination of both.

 

Birdie loves the outer world.  She loves to be outside . . . out in nature with all the sounds and activity.  She has never met another dog that isn’t a potential playmate . . . a companion to while the hours away.  It drives her crazy to watch the neighbors play with their pups.  She wants to play too.  She wants that interaction.

 

She loves company.  It does not matter if it is a critter or human.  She is friendly and open to meeting others.  She loves to go on walks to encounter people and other pups.  She’s an avid reader of “pee mail”.  Doesn’t miss a post and is always eager to leave a response.  There are no short walks with Birdie.

 

Birdie especially loves children.  A protector and companion.  She was always checking in on the grandchildren whenever they visited.  Always wanting to be where the action is.  She lives for those opportunities.  From the time I get home I get the “stare” . . . take me for my walk.

 

Quinn . . . well, she is different.  She loves the indoors.  That is her domain.  Her toys are scattered throughout, whereas Birdie’s are scattered across the yard.  Where Birdie finds great joy in the great outdoors, Quinn finds a necessary evil of that where business is to be taken care of.  For Quinn going outside is a brief diversion.  Unless it is sunny, and the rocks are warm.  Otherwise, it does not take much to coax her in.

 

Indoors she has her humans.  Two are enough for her.  The wife and I meet her needs.  A nice lap . . . a warm blanket . . . she is in heaven.  When it comes time for a walk, she is a nervous Nellie.  She hides under the table.  She goes in the opposite direction.  Walks are not her thing.  People are not her thing.  Birdie appreciates and approaches people—Quinn hides behind me.

 

I can’t blame her acting strange when it comes to walks.  After all, she is a miniature Dachshund.  She weighs a whopping ten pounds soaking wet.  She takes ten steps to Birdie’s one.  Plus, she is living in the land of giants.  Everything and everyone are bigger than she is.  Huge in comparison.  And children . . . children are the bane of her existence.  Children are touchy, feelie giants apt to step or pull on her.  She rather hang out with her humans.  It is safer.  Life expectancy is longer.

 

Quinn is a cuddler.  Birdie is action.  At the same time, they exhibit their weaker traits.  Birdie prefers a quiet place by herself to nap and sleep.  Quinn is under the sheets cozy between her two humans.  Birdies stares and rarely barks in the house, except when she has had enough inner time and longs for some extraverted time.  Inside Quinn has no difficulty expressing herself to me, often leading to long barking dialogues.  She barks a lot.  I blame it one small dog syndrome—she is a small dog!

 

Birdie is the extravert.  Quinn is an introvert.  Either way they are our furry buddies . . . our companions.  They are who they are.  Living with my wife, I understand Birdie—they both want a lot of attention and wear me out.  Quinn, on the other hand . . . well we connect.  We know each other.  We love our house . . . our sanctuary.  We love our pack.  It is enough for us.  They say people and dogs begin to resemble each other after a while.  When it comes to looks that is not the case for us . . . though I find Quinn to be quite a looker in comparison to me.    No, the older we get the more our personalities resemble one another.  We humans and all our critters are more alike than we know.  We are blessed by the tie that binds us.

 

Arooooo!!