Taking stock of my life.

My dearest friends (who happen to be neighbors) don’t really know me. Because they forget. That I live in odd ways. They think I’m supposed to follow a script. A familiar pattern. Familiar to them. So when I deviate from my usual mode of operating, they become alarmed. They think that maybe I’m becoming too odd. For me.  And they begin to wonder. If perhaps I’m losing it. Now that I am 81, and counting. After all, this is the age when mental and physical infirmities set in. Such as dementia. This amuses me. Sure, I’m not as spry as I used to be. Physically. Mentally. But I’m still very much with it. I know what’s going on. I’m very perceptive. They notice that my walking gait has changed. Or so they think. But my gait has always varied. From day to day. They never noticed before. But now they notice. Because they are suppose to notice an older man. For clues of decrepit. Not realizing that I’m affected by my mood.  Always have. Always will. If I’m in deep thought, I walk bent down. Looking at the ground.  Like when I’m reading a book. Other times, I’m out to clear my mind. I walk more briskly. Head up high. Looking straight ahead. Noticing the environs. Listening to the birds. That’s me. That’s my style.  Some days I walk like an old man. Other days like a young man. I recently bought a new vehicle. An SUV.  A  Chevrolet Trailblazer. The biggest vehicle I ever owned. I baby it. Take good care of it. Protect it. Even to the extent. Of driving my old and rusted beater, a 1997 Oldsmobile Cutlass, into town on a snowy day. The neighbors think I’m nuts. But I have a sentimental attachment to my old car. I still like to keep it in use. Even if that seems odd.  Doesn’t matter what the neighbors think. I have my reasons. And it’s not that I’m afraid to drive the better and more durable and adaptive vehicle. It’s that I’m merely odd. I follow my odd instincts. Because I’m not afraid to be very, very odd.  My neighbors seemed alarmed last night.  When learning that I missed a scheduled physical therapy session. For my injured shoulder. They jumped to the hasty conclusion that maybe I forgot. No, I didn’t. I called to cancel the session. Because we had heavy snow the night before. And instead, I spent the day shoveling the driveway. And clearing snow from the roof.  They thought that was ill-advised, if not odd, for a man my age. And in need of physical therapy. But I felt good. Before and after. In fact, I felt like a 31-year-old man.  Odd as that may sound. Yes, I’m very much with it. Still alive and conscious. And in love. With my Italian amore. And with life. I know exactly what I’m doing. On a break at the moment. At the computer. Taking stock of my (unusual and idyllic) life. --Jim Broede