Adieu, Mon Ami

I hope I’m not alone in this. Tell me you don’t have a favorite t-shirt somewhere, or maybe a fleece, or an old pair of jeans, that has outlived its expiration date by, let’s say, 15 years. You know what I’m talking about. Clothing that’s so old it not only looks weathered, but it knows your history; it knows your secrets. It is almost holy in its rankings among your belongings. You put these garments in the laundry and you dearly hope they survive the spin cycle. Why you keep them is obvious. They feel great. They conform to your body in a way that reflects that they are practically human. They know you, right? So what if they are a bit torn, a bit weathered, a tad faded. They are your friends. They understand.

So, when it comes to parting with them you feel a sense of loss that is wholly out of touch with reality; totally out of line with “normal” expectations. They have become a part of you, and tossing them away is akin to tossing away a loved one, sort of. They deserve a fitting burial, no?

This tragic moment happened to me this weekend when I ever-so-reluctantly parted with a t-shirt I loved. It was one I picked up in New Zealand 14 years ago when we were traveling there with Jesse and Alex. It was a muted peach in color -- or at least it became muted after its 4,000th washing in 2003. Over time it became beatifically soft as only a bit of clothing that lasts so long can become. On its back it touted A.J. Hackett Bungee Jumping, an outfit that was responsible for Jesse’s leap into thin air at the tender age of 13 off the Kuwara Bridge outside of Queenstown, New Zealand. A leap that launched an adventurous and -- some would say -- fearless attitude toward life that has suited him well over the past decade. Some would say too well, but that’s another story.

And so, when I realized that its threadbare leavings were not up to yet another spin cycle, I made the terrible judgment that its expiration date -- long overdue -- had actually arrived. Life support was no longer an option. The shirt was now semi-transparent and was deserving of a fitting adieu. I touched it with a sensitivity I likely had never before managed; the kind you would experience maybe with a loved one with whom it was time to say good-bye.

I will get over this, of course. But, don’t tell me there aren’t memories embedded in that t-shirt’s weave. Don’t tell me there isn’t something more important here than discarding your every day piece of trash. I won’t hear of it.

Treasure your old garments. They know you as few do.

Jailbreak

We reached the end of the wooden walkway that leads to the edge of the beach. I reached down and spoke softly to the patiently waiting Mojo. “Be careful out there” I whispered to him and then released the latch on his leash and sat back to watch his ecstasy. It was his first day unleashed since early April when he had knee surgery that would require more than three months of rehabilitation. From his ridiculous “Elizabethan” collar, to his underwater treadmill sessions, to his slow return to long walks, to his trots with me around Wild Dunes, his surgeon finally pronounced him ready to return to the scene of the crime, as it were. He was joined on that walkway by his long time compatriots, Bosco and Mabel, the great danes who live next door. Mabel, too, was excited to see her buddy again. In a flash, he was sprinting to the ocean, his home away from home.

If one can paint a picture of happiness, then this was a Rembrandt. Mojo flew to the water and began his eternal pursuit of minnows in the shallows. He fairly leaped vertically as he tried to pivot and intercept the elusive fish. His motions were akin to a frenetic, spastic dance to a music that has no rhythm, but which has a satanic beat. For a creature that has only two goals in his life -- to catch a squirrel and to catch a minnow -- this was serious, if joyous, business. I brought with me three tennis balls to keep him entertained, but they were wholly unnecessary. The minnows, or, more accurately, the promise of minnows was all he needed. Even his other compatriots, Lucy the boxer, Betsy the goldendoodle, Sandy, the miniature something, and other assorted labs were most surely a distraction, but they were only a diversion from the main event. Center stage was reserved for the ocean.

The fly in this ointment is the knowledge that Mojo will be facing more knee surgery in his near future, this time on his right leg. The surgeon told me it was not an “if” question, but a “when” question as to when the other shoe would drop, so to speak. Lily and I held our collective breath as we watched Mojo sprint to the ocean wondering if he’d pull up lame and face a maddeningly hasty return to being under house arrest. In a way, we were already preparing ourselves for this. But, this was of no interest to Mojo who cared only that he could dive through some waves, lie in the shallows, and chase those infernal minnows. Today all went well.

This is how you spell happiness.

"Will you still need me, will you still feed me......."

Back in the mid-60s when Paul McCartney wrote “When I’m 64,” I barely gave it a thought. It was a nice enough song, but one that definitely took a back seat to a host of other Beatles tunes and, for that matter, almost every other piece of music from that fabulous era. If I had given the thoughts behind this song even a nanosecond of my attention, I would have shrugged and concluded, “that’s for other folks.” And, of course, that would have been right…...in 1966. But, we’re not in 1966 anymore, are we? It’s 44 years later and now its lyrics and sentiments resonate a bit more personally than they did back then. Why? Because today I turn 64; that’s why.

Mostly, as we age, we become avid devotees of the “denial” approach to problem resolution as we still, despite all obvious indications, try to siphon off our latent fears that things are most certainly going downhill. What we hear is such tripe as, “60 is the new 40” and so on. Well, I hate to tell you, but 60 is still 60, and 64 is still 64, and until the human species can reliably extend life well into the hundreds, we are marching, unrelentingly, to our expiration dates.

Do I take solace that I can still run 6 miles or swim 60 laps? Of course. Do I try to tell myself that my parents were not remotely in the same shape I am for this age, and that bodes well for me? For sure. Am I convinced by all that? Sometimes… as when I indulge in one of my flights of denial and delude myself into thinking it so. Maybe it’s a pattern for baby boomers who have never taken well to notions that they are not special or cutting edge. We are immortal, no?

I do have to say that the image conjured up by Mr. McCartney of the person who is 64 is of someone who, in my own mind, is hopelessly infirm and tottering on helplessness. I know I don’t feel that way and look forward to many more adventures before I pack it in. But, I would be lying if I said that turning 64 isn’t a dour reminder of something I don’t want to confront. Am I drooling yet? No. Am I googling nursing homes? Hell no. But, there’s something so arbitrary about a number. Is 64 so wildly different than 63? Of course not. Damn you, Paul, for making me think it is.

Nap time anyone?