Last Saturday was my birthday.
Because of my diminishing shelf life, I took inventory.
I discovered I’m older than FDR’s Bank Holiday.
It pains me to report that as life flies by, I’ve become disillusioned, disconcerted and disappointed with my country’s leaders who put party ahead of country.
George Washington was right. Political parties are for the birds.
Nothing is going my way.
Years ago I married a good woman, and we raised three great kids. I was pretty handy around the house. I fixed things that broke, grew vegetables and could change the spark plug in my lawnmower without any supervision.
I could go without sleep for a week, or fall asleep in a wink.
Once I sheet rocked and rewired our basement without knowing what in the heck I was doing. Over the years I have typed so many news stories and columns that I’ve worn the letters off three computer keyboard keys, and in some cases, worn clean through the plastic keys.
I could type 100 words a minute. I wrote 21 books in 16 years.
But now, everywhere I turn, I bump into walls, trip over carpet lint, fall asleep at the switch and have become expert at putting my foot in my big, fat mouth almost daily.
If you learn lessons from losing, I’ve had a great education.
I say tomato, and everyone else says tamato.
I see blue sky, but others say it’s overcast.
I vote for candidate A, but most everyone else picks candidate B.
I have the feeling that I’ve reached that far plateau where the sun only shines on days that start with the letter E.
I find myself comparing obituary page ages with my own.
This bean-sprouted, tattooed, messy haired, cell phoned, i-Podded and Padded world is passing me by.
Until Barry Bonds, Lance Armstrong and several hundred other narcissistic pro athletes who have come along in recent years, I thought steroids were what kept carpeting on stairs.
The only drug I used as a kid was a daily dose of cod liver oil.
The word swipe was once a word for steal. Now it is what you do to process a credit card. Bar codes in my day were the rules of behavior down at the beer hall.
I try every day to be forward looking, but then my dyslexia kicks in and I head the wrong way.
Some of our national leaders now trumpet an alternate world, and I don’t recall anything like that even existed when I was growing up.
We abided by the Boy Scout pledge and our parents’ advice to never lie.
But for many of our nation’s elected leaders today, lying has become an admired and oft-used political strategy, and people laugh about it. Truth in our nation’s Capitol is under siege.
Where did the world I grew up in go anyway?
My disappointments aren’t just about the big wigs wallowing in Washington’s cattail of sloughs. They also hit close to home.
I reached down this morning to tie my shoes, and I grunted.
Later I started to comb my hair, but I couldn’t find it.
I have a six-pack thirst and a half-a-pack bladder.
I have excellent hearing, but darned if I could decipher a single word Lady Gaga was caterwauling in that noisy Super Bowl halftime show during which smoke, lights and downright and authenticated noise upstaged actual talent.
Life ain’t fair.
On my last birthday I told my wife I never wanted to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle. “If that ever happens, just pull the plug,” I told her.
She unplugged my TV and threw away my beer.
So as the anniversary of my birth passes, I can tell you that I’m sure not winning many these days.
If you’d like to comment, email the author at cfcecil@swiftel.net.
