Category: retirement

“Your Fly Is Open…”: Misplaced Priorities

I have reached an age where my train of thought often leaves the station without me. (Clear Thoughts)

She alerted me with an edgy, disgusting sort of admonition, “you can’t leave the house like that, your fly is open“. I looked down and, yes, she was right, again.

“Just be thankful I remembered to put on pants”, I wanted to say. Instead, I just grumbled something incomprehensible and corrected the little faux-pas.

What happens to a person after a certain point in life? Does forgetting to do routine stuff become the new norm? It seems to be.

“You did it again, you left the toilet seat up”, she called from one of our ‘too many’ bathrooms. .

I grew up in a large family, five boys and two girls, with one bathroom, just 1. If we closed the toilet seat cover every time it got used, my father would have spent several paychecks a year replacing it because the hinges would have become unhinged ( I feel that way, myself, at times).

But this isn’t a commentary on habits, good or bad. It’s about forgetfulness creeping in as I age. I don’t even want to call it ‘forgetfulness’, the things I forget just aren’t a high priority. A down zipper? Open toilet? No big deal.

My high priority stuff is more like eating, finding my keys, whether to hit or hold 14 in a blackjack hand and scheduling a beer night with other seniors.

At my local health club, I find myself looking in the mirror to make sure I’m properly attired before going to the pool. It’s one article of clothing and I have to check to make sure I’m wearing it? Maybe that should be a higher priority.

I’m the guy in the grocery store parking lot looking for his car with a cart full of dairy products souring and ice cream melting under a summer sun. I’ve often come close to calling security to report a stolen car but how many times can a guy do that before getting labeled a public nuisance?

I’m thinking about realigning my priorities closer to what she’d like (yes, her, the better half). After 54 years of marriage, it’s the least I can do, don’t you agree? If this works, I’ll be reprimanded fewer times for forgetfulness and feel better about myself.

Whoops, I spoke too soon…

“You didn’t set the house alarm last night!”, she reminded me at breakfast

“Wow, we’re lucky we made it to morning alive”, I muttered into my coffee cup, having just gotten over the shock of noticing that I put my socks on the wrong feet (yes, the fancy logo faces out).

I’ve a grand memory for forgetting (Robert Louis Stevenson)*

Steve Bottcher (070923)

*Brainy Quotes

The Bar Chronicles: #5, ‘Seniors Say The Darndest Things*’

*thank you, Art Linkletter!

Bar Night 2

The heat and humidity has been off the charts this summer in western New York. Lawns are brown, plants are wilting, farmers are worried and throats are parched. Sounds like the perfect time for another ‘bar night’.

So, tonight we found ourselves gathered around a back room table at Johnny’s Irish Pub in Rochester.  Four seniors, friends from our neighborhood, here to enjoy some beer, brotherhood and ‘man talk’, the simple art of filling time with random thoughts, guffaws and past recollections.

Four old guys, we seem to be a bit of an odd attraction to the regular patrons, a generally younger, blue collar type. Then again, everyone is generally younger nowadays.  And the collars?  Well, we’re retired, collars are a low priority.

This is our fifth ‘bar night’, we exhude confidence, experience and maturity as our beer is served.  “Run a tab, we’ll be back for more”, one of us bravely barks out, earning a few approving nods from customers standing at the bar.  There was a time, once, when we could stand at the bar,  but now, sitting is preferred.

The beer was cold and the brotherhood about to begin. With a clinking of our mugs, a “here, here” to each other and our hands cupped behind our ears to catch every word, we leaned in and began our evening in earnest.

The cacocphany of background chatter  interfered with our own table talk, as we huddled closer, like a football team calling a play.  The interval between our yawns grew shorter. Our energy level was was being tested when the call came for a second round. We endured, ordered refills, closed out our tab, and began the ‘second half’ with unexpected profundity.  ‘Who was your favorite teacher and why?’, I asked.

“Simple, it was Miss Sullivan**”, one of us enthusiastically blurted out, “she had the biggest bosom.” The answer grabbed our attention and would have been enough, but he continued.  “And, she dressed provocatively. My 10th grade friends and I never missed a class…”.  I bet they didn’t.

While not the insight I expected, nevertheless, it was honest. More importantly, to the four of us, it was funny, a classic way to end our ‘bar night’; good timing, excellent delivery and a willing audience eager to kick back a chair, slap the table and ‘guffaw’.

The bar quieted as we filed out to a humid night. Neon signs from other establishments gave a colorful tint to the neighborhood and tall street lights lit our path to the car with another good time behind us.

As we drove home along tree lined streets through old neighborhoods, the car was quiet. Two beers may have made us sleepy, but I imagine the real reason was that three of us were silently wishing that we had been in Miss Sullivan’s** 10th grade class, too…

srbottch.com

**name changed for obvious reasons.

Dedicated to Steve, Tom & Jim