Not Completely Comatose Yet

But I’m working on it.

I recently sold my condo, and the closing is sometime in mid December. Got a fair price for the market, and had planned on using the proceeds to buy into one of the many Senior Citizen communities around where I’m living now. I’d hoped to get a small apartment as advertised with all the amenities to make it a comfortable place to live out the rest of my days.

I was interviewed by community reps in the few senior citizen hotspots I looked at, to entice me to choose their community to buy into. The “buy in” for each of the communities I visited was a significant amount, but I did have enough cash available to make it work.

The shock came when the health check prior to admission to the place I chose, red flagged me as a “non-desirable” and sent me on my way. I was diagnosed as being a risk as the 6 question entry test they put me through revealed that I had “short term memory loss” and their view on this was to declare me as a “non-fit” for their community. I guess I need to go live on the shores of the Naugatuck River with the rest of the homeless.

Hello?!? I’m f’ing 71 years old. It’s a SENIOR COMMUNITY. And I call that assessment pure BS. I’ve been doing my own laundry, grocery shopping, preparing my own food when eating in, administering my daily morning and evening meds, keeping my home fairly clean, and paying my bills on time.

I’m not a full fledged feeb just yet.  And I’ll keep on truckin’.

I Sorta Miss Ya, Ol’ Dude

A man and his sofa. A relationship not to be interfered with. A strong bond.

There it sits. With it’s two beat-to-crap pillows, on a wet, winter morning in January of last year, waiting for the refuse company’s large truck to arrive and take it to its final resting ground. Our culture has regularly related humorous tales in many forms, on the relationship between men and their sofas, and us guys all see the truth in that.

I slept on that comfy bastard, nightly and most weekend afternoons, for at least 15 years. That didn’t do my back much good, creating painful wake ups in the latter years, but I couldn’t give it up. No, there was nothing wrong with our marriage – my wife and I were just very incompatible sleepers. I moved around a lot in my sleep, went to bed later and got up earlier than her. She snored loudly (as I was also known for on occasion) and gave off enough heat to warm a cold room. It was like backing into a wood burning stove.

After dragging the sofa out of the garage and placing it at the end of the driveway, I tossed the two pillows on it and went back into the house. While getting breakfast ready, I looked out the window, and the two pillows and the line under the 3 cushions seemed to make a face. A pleased face, proud of its years of service. A content face, for no longer needing to support my bony ass every night. And a face anticipating a peaceful rest of its own, having lived a life with a thankful man.