Better Late Than Early

I don’t know how to tell you this.

I’m not sure where to start because even I don’t know exactly what happened. But honesty is good for the soul, so here I go. I hope this doesn’t change your opinion of me.

I’m hardly ever late anymore. I know. I can’t believe it either. But this morning my hubby and I were buckled up and backing out of the driveway at 10:14. “Look at us,” he said pleasantly, “leaving the house a full minute early.”

Well, actually, the clock in our truck is one minute slow, but I let it ride and acted like it was no big deal. You know, played my cards close to the chest. Not because I’m proud, but because I have no idea how it keeps happening. Nobody was tense. No blood was shed. The bed was made, the dishwasher running, and we didn’t forget anything. We left on time and I had all my clothes on.

Weird. And kind of sad, really.

Secretly, I’ve taken a certain amount of pleasure in my tardy identity all these years. I hate showing up early just so somebody else can be a control freak and start a meeting on time. And don’t get me started on going to the movies. Did you know there’s a theater full of people who show up a half hour early just to hog the good seats? Once in a while my hubby tricks me into doing that, but that means all my Junior Mints are gone before the previews even get started. There I sit—snackless—through a whole movie.

Really ticks me off.

So, I’ve stayed true to my inner clock most of my life, arriving flushed and apologetic, but in full command of my own control freak version of time. Until recently. Suddenly, I’m taking an extra ten minutes to gather myself and my stuff and walk out the door a tiny bit early. Early. I just learned how to spell that word. Not frantic, not panicked, not manic. Just . . . prompt.

I’m scared to death I’m losing my mind.

Yesterday I arrived right on time for a doctor appointment and waited thirty minutes before I was seen. Can you imagine if I’d arrived thirty minutes early like those weird movie buffs? I’d have sat there in his calm little office for an hour with nothing to do but lose myself in the book I brought along.

How do people live like this?

Last week I was ready to leave fifteen minutes early—which was really right on time since we needed to take a fifteen minute detour on the way to our actual appointment. I walked into the kitchen to tell my husband I was ready, and there he stood, ironing a shirt he didn’t need until next week. Just like that, we left fifteen minutes late. And it was all his fault. That’s like . . . okay, well it’s the first time it’s ever happened.

I think I figured it out.

It’s menopause. I heard everything changes in midlife. Men get cold and women get hot and men get emotional and women get—bossier, and women go to work and men retire to stay home.

And now, just as I’m figuring out how to show up on time, my husband gave up his day job and set all the clocks in the house back an hour. I think he’s trying to undermine my new success.

Oh. So that’s what ‘menopause’ means—the pause of men.

It’s his turn to be tardy now. Crap.









Thanks to Francisco Vargas for this beautiful photo. The original can be viewed at the link which follows.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/haripako/4880374152/in/photolist-8rgccW-BJMcVe-Nak8mi-vDugHd-NamVXn-MZ9UhQ-MZUB4J-MhuANt-N565F2-zDp3kj-wivNcn-84ZkBB-9wzJ99-5Z9irC-5Ui2bM-5XVg1q-5Fr8PA-65m2wy-6mQFYF-68C1fY-6f8CCJ-6nN8f7-6dk6qj-6FQd8N-6qk8RY-6p3yey-67ht6z-6hs7os-6kUtp2-6pLuV6-5P7E6t-GNmb4Y-5U1djQ-6kknMf-5UGWLa-5Ya9f9-6ehjXp-6oeAA5-HZRho3-6o2GAu-89KoCw-51k3dC-W6h1bb-b2LGsZ-61sMmB-byTH51-62WTwN-6fDCkL-5VyEeE-6bBmwy

Chicken Soup For The Sick

Oh, by doodness. By doze, by doze!! Oh, brudder. Reading dis is gonna be as hod to do as it dis to breed. Breadthe. BREATHE.

Wait a binute.

I’ll interpret.

The view from the winepress this morning is depressing. My fifth box of Kleenex looks as sad as I feel, its next volunteer sticking up out of the cardboard box near my laptop and listing awkwardly to starboard. It knows what’s coming—foul nasal nastiness too disgusting for even a disposable handkerchief to contemplate. If it knew how to do it, I bet this paper tissue would jump overboard now rather than face its horrible destiny.

I get it. If I had the courage, I’d jump, too—right into a giant vat of chicken soup.

Anybody know where I can find one of those?

I’m not sure how long hubby and I have been sick. I only know that this record breaking virus, the final kick in the keister as 2017 bid us a bitter adieu, is one for the books. Almost all my friends have it. No, I didn’t give it to them. Sheesh. How could you even suggest such a thing? I might have given it to hubby, but that was an accident waiting to happen.

You can’t share the same doorknobs and remote control and not wind up in sick bay together.

Any minute I expect to see an unmarked van pull up to our house, where six men in white, inflatable jumpsuits will emerge, teepee the place with yellow caution tape, and warn the world that the two of us are walking bio-hazards—living, breathing, bio-hazards. Still, I wouldn’t blame them or the neighbors who ratted us out.

I’m afraid of my germs, too.

It’s not fair. We haven’t had a cold in two years. Two years! Do you know how long it takes to stack up a record like that? Two . . . oh. You did the math already. Now, we have to start all over again, from the ground up. I thought we were on our way to indestructible. After all, we drink homemade kefir—every day! Guzzle gallons of kombucha every month. I even throw back teaspoons of cultured sauerkraut when I think about it. Did you know when you take an ordinary, unappetizing head of cabbage and ferment it for a week that the vitamin C content skyrockets from 30 milligrams a serving to 600-700??

Of course, a serving is one cup. A teaspoon is . . . embarrassing.

That might be where I went wrong. Turns out it doesn’t keep you healthy if you merely admire a jar of kraut in the fridge every day. You have to actually eat the stuff.

I.Am.A.Probiotic.Failure.

Please don’t tell Donna Schwink.

And holy cow. Do you have any idea how expensive it is to get sick? If I’d just eaten that sauerkraut like Donna told me to, I could have taken all the money we donated to our neighborhood pharmacy last month and used it to . . . buy more kombucha. That's a pretty pricey probiotic.

The point is . . . well, what is the point? There’s no point. You’re probably sick with the same cold as I am and, as we watch helplessly, it's currently morphing into something more serious which, in the end, will be so expensive it’ll leave you nearly broke and you’ll be forced to send the kids to community college instead of funding an Ivy League education for them. So, all this whining from the winepress about how my nose is keeping me awake at night is just about as interesting as watching infomercials at 3 a.m., like I did this morning.

I knew you’d feel that way.

Well, I have no advice for you. I have no advice for me, either. I just thought we could toast one another with a cup of hot tea, blow our noses in unison, and promise ourselves that the next time we think we’re immune from the common cold, we get our heads examined before they’re taken captive by a rhinovirus.

And maybe eat another teaspoon or two of der sauerkraut.

Gesundheit.