Hiscox in my Sandy Orifice and the Laptop that Set my Crotch on Fire

It appears to have been nearly a week since my last entry, though that seems nearly unfathomable.  The days are bleeding together into a mélange of euphoric training hikes and monotonous single parenting opportunities.  The wife had not so much as left the driveway when the boys and I crafted a plan to hit the beach for a little fun in the sun and possible titty watching.  The latter seems to be of increasing interest to my eldest which makes me have to shield my laughter when I catch his eyes darting about the beach in hopes of catching sight of an elusive nipple or two.  I am far from what one would call “reserved”, so I take great pleasure in occasionally nudging him on the shoulder to point out a pair he might have missed so that I can watch his face turn bright red.   And yes, while Mom is away, you can be certain that I am doing my part to place a stitch or two of wild open-mindedness into their moral fiber.  Any damage done can certainly be re-sculpted in my month long absence in September.  My poor wife!

We didn’t bother with the body boards given my correct assumption that the water would be so intolerably cold that we would spend most of our afternoon digging in the sand rather than splashing in the waves.  It was just as well, as the beach was under yellow flag and the wave conditions were far too dangerous for my guys to be paddling around in anyway.  We splashed around on the periphery and dug a few healthy holes in the sand before our day was done.  On our way back to the car, I thought it would be a special treat for the boys to watch the equivalent of a coast guard helicopter take flight.  I guess I should have paid closer attention to those episode of M.A.S.H. when BJ or Hawkeye would scamper away from the chopper as it lifted back into the air.  This being France, no great precautions are taken to prevent you from shuffling into mortal danger, so our vantage point was barely out of rotor reach.  I would guess we couldn’t have been more than 10 or so yards from it when all hell broke loose.  The deafening noise was the least startling event in the no-holds-barred assault on our senses.  As soon as flight commenced, the rotor wash flooded our every pore and unguarded orifice with irritating flecks of microscopic sand particles sent our way at what felt like Hurricane speed.   The three of us dove for cover behind the far wall of the toilet chalet and waited for the storm to clear.  We laughed and spent several moments dusting each other off before heading for home.

After getting them hosed down and appropriately situated for the evening, I sat down for a spot of UK television and was immediately confronted by a commercial for “Hiscox” lnsurance.   That’s the name of the company by the way, not a variety of available coverage, though there may be a niche market there that someone might be interested in.  I have said it before and I will say it again, marketing fascinates the shit out of me.  What makes something sell in one part of the world would send consumers running  for the hills in others, or at the very least have them laughing so uncontrollably that their orange juice shoots out of their nose.  That hurts by the way, just in case you were wondering.  I get it, I have the sense of humor of a 13 year old.  Still, I think you get my point.  We expect Mom home tomorrow and life will return back to its ordinary ebb and flow.  This in turn will perhaps allow me some more keyboard time to hash out the next five posts I have already written titles for, the content of which I am struggling to keep hold of in the usual storm of ideas bouncing around inside my balding head.  

For now, I shall bid you all a good eve despite the fact that I have much more to write.  Truth is, the damned cursor keeps jumping around the page when I brush against the touch pad from my uncomfortable typing position and my aggravation level is making it impossible to go on.  The uncomfortable typing position is due to the fact that my laptop is on the verge of a catastrophic melt down.  The fan works non-stop by blowing scalding air onto my genitals which, in turn, forces me to set the “lap”top next to me on the bed.  I know what you are thinking, but desks are for suckers.  Why else would they call the fucking thing a “lap”top anyhow?  So, again I bid you a good evening and promise to give another shout as soon as time permits, provided the burn cream does its part in cooling my seemingly fire scorched testicles.  R.

If April Showers Bring May Flowers

Then what do May Showers Bring after all the flowers have been drowned?  I know, do you? No?  It brings misery, that’s what May Showers bring . . . MISERY.   It has been raining for so many days now that I have simply lost count.  I feel a vague yearning to gather some animals and build an Ark.  Of course if Noah had started this late in the game all would have been lost.  What can I say . . . I’m lazy.  Though I don’t remember heavy rains being a particular problem last year, I do recall the change in daylight.  It doesn’t get dark till somewhere on the order of 10 p.m.  When paired with the incessant deadfall of rain, this fact does nothing but exacerbate the natural effects of my undiagnosed seasonal affective disorder.  The rainy retreat has given me even more time alone with my thoughts than usual.  Not always such a bad place to be.  Just today, however, the weather has turned back to the favorable and yet here I sit rattling away on the aging keyboard of my trusty Sony laptop.  In secret I am hoping it meets and untimely end so I can upgrade to an Apple machine, but I don’t think my wife will buy the excuse that it “accidently” fell off the table.  As I sit down and reflect over the past several weeks, it seems more appropriate that I should title this post “June Flowers”.  I feel as though just last night the puzzle pieces that are my life began to take shape and June promises to be a beginning, not just of the warmer summer months, but the start of the first few paragraphs in the next chapter in a story that is probably half written, but only a quarter told.  This is all beginning to have the trappings of a midlife crisis of sorts.  If I suddenly opt for hair plugs and an opulent sports car you will know the truth of the matter.  I would like to think that this is something more.  A turning point . . . an awakening.

If I were to place titles on each segment of my life, I would entitle the first 36 years (essentially from birth to just about a year ago) as “Lost”.  I have spent half a lifetime simply going through the motions.  No thought was truly given to its direction.  I was following a path because it seemed the only one within view, and yes, it was the social norm.  Attempting to grind out an unfulfilling career and settling down into a deep rut from which the only escape would be retirement and a less than dramatic death in some senior citizen club somewhere in Florida maybe.  Though I still think a warm climate would be ideal for the golden years, the map may have shifted a bit as has my perception of the silver haired man I will become (figure of speech obviously as at present I have no hair at all and absent joining the hairclub in coming weeks when all this enlightenment wears off, I am likely to stay that way for the remainder of my days).  The truth is, there is only one hope for the thoughtless . . . luck.  I have been lucky in ways I can’t possibly describe and most of that luck falls upon the auburn covered head of my lovely wife.  Lucky in love as they say . . . Indeed.  She has given me two wonderfully beautiful children, loads of hopeful encouragement and most of all . . . TIME.  It is that last that has perhaps saved my life.  I think she knew before I did that I needed time to sort some shit out.  So here we are, ass deep in an adventure we are hopeful to find our way out of in the near future having taken stock of all things exotic and finding the simple bliss the place we call home.  For me, however, the adventure has just begun.

You see, this past year and the year that lies ahead have opened a door.  And though this may be the shortest chapter my unwritten biography, it will likely prove to be the most important.  I would have to entitle this small but meaningful portion “The Manhunt” for I am looking for this man, a man I knew existed only in fragmented glimpses . . . the man I am meant to be.  It seems as though I have found him, and now he has a shit load of questions to answer like “Where have you been for the last 36 years?” “Lost” seems to be his only response.  So now we embark into an unwritten section that I will entitle “Found”, he and I.  We have a new career path, though we don’t know where that will lead.  Along side that career we seem to have been bitten by some kind of strange bug.  We have discovered a secondary calling if you will.  The first was simple enough to digest.  Writing as a career choice is simply a matter of taking stock in that which you love to do and for once having the courage to shake free from convention and chase it down like a tribesman running down wild game.  The second part is a bit more elusive and less certain.  I hope one day to have it etched on my grave stone . . . “Writer and ADVENTURER”.  To be honest, aside from possibly finding a deeper meaning to life which is reason enough, the upcoming trip to Santiago De Compostella is starting to make more sense than ever and I am now longing for its approach like a child yearns for Christmas.  Until now, I had almost been dreading it, and for good reason too.  Without knowing the reason for my compulsion I could only focus on the sacrifice.  I know without doubt that leaving my family (namely that final good bye when I hug the kids tightly and kiss the wife one final lingering time) for an entire month is going to rip my guts apart.  Yet now, there is an element of joyful anticipation attached to its rapid approach.  It is the anticipation that I think all those preparing for a long journey into unknown waters has faced over the course of history and it all makes way too much sense to me now.  I share a thirst with them now . . . a kindred spirit that I didn’t even realize I was missing.  Don’t misunderstand, I have a fair bit of responsibility that keeps me anchored in the harbor and I am unlikely to wildly set sale and wander the planet in search of formidable seas and a lifetime of adventure.  After all, I have a fair bit of adventure right here at home.

To be honest, “anchor” is an unfavorable term to what keeps me tied tightly to my wife and children.  They are more like those that tend the lines of a hot air balloon.  They keep me from drifting off before I am ready to fly.  They wish me well and know that the wind will forever blow me back in their direction.  Sure, some flights may take me a month while others may end in an afternoon.  They know that whenever I go, there will always be space for them in the basket and if they don’t choose the come along, they can rest easy knowing that the weather isn't often favorable for ballooning.  Even on those days when the wind is right and weather fair, I am likely to stay with them at ground level.  That being said, I am confident that they will tend the lines and even encourage me to journey when the time is right just as they are now in the face of a very busy Fall.  So now, with my maiden voyage yet to even leave port, I am eagerly planning the next.  In a recent email sent to an old friend I offered the following:

“. . . I am finishing up a book that put me in mind of  you and I and it got me thinking.  I think after I get back to the States for good it is high time we seek out an adventure together.  Not some random weekender but an epic, life changing siege.  Maybe on motorcycle or maybe on foot . . . maybe a coast to coast ride?  Maybe a ride through Central and South America?  What do you think old friend?  You up for something like that?  I have quite a list of shit that I am bound and determined to check off the list before I die.  Maybe a pilgrimage to Rome, Hike the Pacific Crest Trail, oh . . . maybe we buy a boat and go on a sailing expedition, no wait . . . ever wanted to see the north of south pole?  Shit . . . dog sledding! . . . “

I suppose this could be referred to as my “bucket list” so to speak, and while it was an earnest invitation to an old friend it was also a promise and invitation to myself.  I suppose it all sounds a bit mad when looking at it with fresh eyes, but that hasn’t really quelled my resolve.  I plan to do these things and bring you all along with me as I write.  I am dabbling with a bit of fiction for the novelty of it, but adventure writing is where my heart lies and I feel strangely that the adventure that I am writing about now is coming to an end.  I have made my discoveries and shared this part of the story.  If I am honest with myself, I have but a few of these entries left in me before September which is where I will call this quits for good.

I admit that my retirement from this project has been a bit Michael Jordanesque but it has to end sometime.  Rest easy knowing that I will be back soon enough with a new blog or perhaps a book if I am lucky enough to publish.  What really would suit me would be a series of magazine essays or a newspaper column, so if you know anyone in the editorial field, put in a good word for me.  Stay tuned . . . R.

Silencing the Metronome: Growing Pains and Armpit Stains

Tick Tock, the pendulum swings

each side sings its song

One for the better and one for the worse

neither to admit their wrong

Tick Tock, the clock confirms

we can’t go back in time

Be it black or be it white

your opinion’s not worth a dime

I debated simply posting this and letting nature take its course.  To do so would have led to some very interesting conversation for those brave enough to voice their thoughts.  Since I don’t usually get much of a response given my limited readership, I think I will go ahead and explain.  What started as a cleverly written verse about blind optimism and even shorter sighted pessimism became something much more to me the more I read what it was that I had actually written.  To begin with, it is important to know that when I write, I only write what I know to be real.  I try not to fabricate drama where none exists and in turn avoid glazing the truth to a shiny pearlescent sheen.  Being a blog author myself, I spend a fair amount of time in the blogosphere perusing the works of others.  Most being at least semi-autobiographical, I find myself scratching my head sometimes at the content.  I use the term “semi”-autobiographical because most seem to have an innate need to fabricate a truth about themselves to portray to the public.  They seem to go about this in two manners, neither of which has a better claim.

There are those who veer toward the dramatic and every episode of their lives must be turned into a stage performance.  Even the slightest negativity is blown completely out of proportion till it overshadows everything else.  These folks seem to think themselves a magnet for misfortune and often say things like “Drama just follows me everywhere I go!” or “This kind of thing only happens to me!”.  I can assure you that neither is the case.  The truth is something more along the lines of “My life is so mundane that I feel it necessary to invent and fabricate a web of half-truths to make my life less boring than it actually is”.  The flip side of this coin is no easier to palate.  These are the “Shiny Happy People”.  Those who want you to believe that their lives are perfect and free from strife.  They claim their children are angels and there isn’t a moment of discontentment in their completely fullfilling marriage.  This is as big a con as those who claim that their life is full of want and woe with rotten children and cheating spouses.  In every life a little rain must fall.  Your children will disappoint you, your spouse will disappoint you, and you will disappoint them in return.  A little strife does not equal devilish hatred and will not condemn you to an afterlife of hellfire and damnation.

I guess what I am getting at is this:  What ever happened to honesty?  When I am happy I try to let that show.  Perhaps I am down more than I am up, or perhaps the opposite is the case.  I haven’t really gone back to check.  The point is, when I am proud of my kids I say so.  When they have stepped in it, I share that as well.  Same goes with the wife.  As you all know by now, I think rather highly of her.  Wouldn’t have chosen her as a spouse if I didn’t.  There are some days though, that I wonder what in the hell is running through her head.  Actions that frustrate and dismay.  And again, I share that too.  I even do my best to admit when I disappoint them, though I think I am not as self-deprecating as I ought to be sometimes.  I can be an ogre and I can be a Grinch, but I can also be kind and loving.  As I have mentioned, I can even border on the quasi-sentimental if you will.  So, the question for me is not of honesty but rather discretion.  My life is typically an open book and while my wife has gotten fairly used to my lack of candor, the children are a different story.  Some things are better left unsaid and certain confidentialities should not be betrayed.  So, where do I draw the line?

For instance, I haven’t a single bit of remorse in announcing that despite the fact that I am a grown ass man, I still find it next to impossible to keep from getting deodorant all over my clothes.  Whether the application method be pre-shirting or post-shirting, the outcome is the same.  Honestly, was there some pubescent training seminar that I somehow missed out on?  I see hundreds of fully functional individuals each day, yet none of them appear to share my need to be caked with deodorant to the point of looking like a Hostess powdered donut.  Now, I must admit that this is a sliding scale as there is a fair portion of French society that elect out of the usage of deodorant, yet those that do, don’t seem to have it painted all over the sides of their shirts.  Yet if this was an issue for my children I would be hesitant in discussing the matter for fear that it would discourage them from utilizing necessary hygiene products, and we all know how much I dislike a cloud of “kid stink”.  And this is just a relatively comical hygiene issue, imagine the plethora of meaty yet delicate subjects that I could weigh in on, yet somehow edit out of my report to protect the innocent.  You should all know by now that I don’t have much of an edit button, so for now I will be satisfied to tell it like it is (exactly like it is) provided my parental judgment  doesn’t get the best of me.  Until we meet again . . . R.

A Nice Day for a White Wedding (Part 2)

There is a vague awareness tucked in the back of my mind that is an interesting thought to ponder.  During my entire time back in the US, I had not even a glimmer of my usually compulsive need to write.  This seems notable on two fronts.  First, an eventual move back “home” might well bring an end to my fledgling career as a writer.  Second, I realized that the reason I write is to share the voice that is usually stifled by a formidable language barrier.  When in my native tongue I finally feel like myself again, capable of expressing my thoughts and dreams to others in spoken form rather than by way of the flashing cursor on this white blank page.  Pouring forth my thoughts in verbal format makes for one last interesting revelation, I HAVE CHANGED.  For most of the week, I felt utterly compelled to reach out to anyone unlucky enough to lock eyes with me.  This need for discourse is an interesting byproduct of our time here in France.  As it turns out, it isn’t the “French” experience that has had the most profound effect on my life, but rather the experience of solitude.  Perhaps we could have saved ourselves some expense and simply moved to a cabin in the woods for two years and lived “off the grid” as they say.  That being said, I now understand the plight of the Monk.  Personal enlightenment is more easily found during periods of intense sensory deprivation.  When one finally returns to the everyday, it is like being reborn.  Fresh eyes meet the world, and all that you have learned through isolation is put into action.  The results are astounding.

Strangely enough, after writing the preceding paragraph, I let this post sit over the weekend to contemplate.  During that time, I continued my study on the upcoming Camino trip and pushed toward the half-way point in the book I am currently reading on a related subject.  This author too noted the strangeness one encounters when viewing their former world with new eyes.  In his case this was by way of a return to civilization after a long trek through the wilderness.  In my case, it is born of a different breed of isolation, but the lessons are the same.  Perhaps this is one thing that I WON’T learn during my pilgrimage down “The Field of Stars”.  More on that later.  I found the correlation between the author’s experience and my own to be quite refreshing and for the first time in months I was TRULY thankful for our life in France which had in recent weeks seemed a burden.  I was right, I HAVE CHANGED, and perhaps for the better I might add.  I certainly feel as though some great lessons have been taught and I am slowly catching up with them as time goes by.  I am, I fear, a slow learner.  Or maybe that is the way of all great teachings, sudden discovery after hours of seemingly mindless strife and struggle.  Mr. Miyagi knew that, and now so do I.  Wax on . . . Wax off . . . Breathe in . . . Breathe Out  . . . Focus Daniel San!

Well, as is my usual manner, I have prattled on for paragraphs without getting much of anywhere.  This seldom goes unnoticed by the wife who found my last entry to be a complete mess.  I am starting to understand why a lot of great writers have secluded themselves in cabins in some forgotten wood.  Perhaps it wasn’t to seek the inspiration that I spoke of just moments ago, but simply a way to get away from their far too practical wife . . . nag, nag, nag.  She did have a point though.  The title of the entry seems mis-leading.  How can I write a piece about a wedding and never actually mention the wedding.  Touche Mon Cheri!  So, let’s get down to the meat and potatoes for those that have been reading along feeling in desperate need of the same dose of reality that my wife likes to see in my posts.  The wedding was a lovely affair of Purple and Orange.  The bride and groom a vision of youthful love and lasting affection.  It was a simple outdoor ceremony with a rustic nostalgia that certainly warmed my heart a bit.  This was afterall, the kind of thing I had really been missing in my heart of hearts.  My visit was a well-kept surprise for my brother and his lovely new wife, and I was absolutely honored when they asked that I have an impromptu role in the ceremony.  I did my best not to sully their special day with my incompetence and social retardation.  I even remembered not to eat with my hands or wipe my mouth on my sleeve.  What more could they ask for really?  And really, aside from the Ambulance and Fire Truck arriving to assist an elderly member of the groom’s family who had perhaps had a stroke during the reception, the whole evening seemed to me to be a great success.  That sort of reminds me that I really need to check in to see if that gal came out alright.

As I watched the bride and groom dance their first dance and wander through their evening in the haze that most of us encounter on our wedding day, I couldn’t help but think back to the few memories that weren’t a complete blur from my own wedding some 12 years ago.  I envied them really, just starting out.  A long road ahead full of twists and turns that will lead to unexpected locations and a life they didn’t imagine when they started out together.  I envied them the way an old dog envies a pup.  Fresh faced and full of vigor.  And these two, oh these two are going places.  They have the entire world in the palm of their hand.  Adventurous to a fault and braver than I by a long shot.  They are impressive beyond words and I feel humbled by their grace and wisdom that is well beyond their years.  And just like that, I realized that I had not come for them.  Sure, from the outside, some would see it a long way to travel when it was certainly not expected.  Both would have certainly forgiven my absence and my presence didn’t really add anything to the event.   Their wedding and their marriage will be a success regardless of the guest list and table settings.  Sure, I wanted to be there for them on this landmark moment in their lives and they in turn pleased to have me, but my true reason for attending was actually fairly selfish indeed.  I needed to be there for . . . ME.  I needed to feel connected again.  I needed to feel as though I wasn’t slipping off the back side of the globe, away from family and friends that too often feel so damned far away.  Gone but not forgotten.  I needed to be reminded.  I needed to be there for this event to make up for two years of missed birthdays and anniversaries, holidays and nurseries.  In my life, I have really been terribly poor at keeping my focus on the importance of those around me. 

I am perhaps as guilty of neglect as anyone could be when it comes to the relationships that I truly value.  I am selfish and self-centered and in many ways lack a certain warmth of feeling.  Aloof is probably an apt description.  I don’t cry at funerals and generally stray from the emotional in favor of the practical.  Perhaps a strange sentiment coming from an artist or a writer, but therein lies the key.   One does not need to be terribly emotional to be sentimental.  Perhaps a matter of semantics, or maybe something more?  Emotion is that which is played in the present for those that live in the now.  Sentiment strikes those who live like me, in the future yet to come.  And though my feelings are seldom shown when a moment comes to pass, each will receive its own due one day . . . in my memories of the past.  And so, I needed to make amends.  Be there when it mattered.  Share in the present to make up for the past.  I was fortunate to have the opportunity to do so, and thank my long suffering wife and two wonderful children for allowing me the time away.  And a hearty good luck to my brother and his beautiful bride.  Marriage is like a wild winding river.  There will be rapids with exhilarating highs and frighteningly dark lows when the horizon dips in and out of your vision in a frustrating flash.  There will be long pools of endless still water when your heart will grow restless.  There will be splits and bends and decisions you must follow.  Just remember to paddle on opposite sides of the boat and you will continue on your travels.  Cheers.  R

A Nice Day for a White Wedding . . . Makes it Hard to Get Back in the Saddle Again (PART 1)

Ever notice how many analogies and metaphors have to do with horses?  Anything from getting back in the saddle after a long absence to getting right back on after you have been bucked off.  How about “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride”.  Never fully understood that one.  There seems to me to be a whole lot of presumption in that statement that I am not comfortable assuming at this point in my life.  For example . . . Do beggars make wishes?  I feel as though their waking hours are filled with more practical thoughts such as . . . oh, I don’ t know, what highway underpass will provide the most cover in the face of an oncoming storm . . . or maybe where their next meal might come from.  If, in fact, beggars do dream, the presumption is that they do so more than the rest of us.  The wants and desires born from their monastic lifestyle making them far more prone to flights of fantasy.  Again I am skeptical, but if indeed they “wish” more than the rest of us, then they would quickly have a herd of horses that would make it virtually impossible to ride.  Their days would be filled with a never ending quest to care for and maintain their herd.  Feeding yourself is one thing, but scratching together enough grub to feed a stable of horses from the nearest dumpster would seem an impossible task that would be far beyond the reaches of the most common beggar.  It also begs the question (pardon the pun) that if a beggar were to suddenly find himself rich with horses, would he still be a beggar at all.  Surely the horse trade is not so poor that one could not make themselves a reasonable living with a little bit of effort.

So, the more apt analogy would be that if a beggar has just one wish, and that wish was in fact in the form of a horse, then they would ride.  Given my general distrust for cowboy analogies, I guess I find myself disappointed to be hopelessly caught in the middle of one at this very moment.  It is an accurate description afterall, and the only one that immediately comes to mind.  I am in the process of “getting back in the saddle” so to speak.  I have been back “home” for a week.  Strange concept that . . . “home”.  It’s where the heart is right?  Hmmm, I’ll have to ponder that for a moment.  It would seem that while I am with my wife and children, a great deal of my heart is back in the US, yet while visiting in the US, my heart is back with them in France.  Having one’s heart split in two is not really all that enjoyable.  In fact, I know now that one cannot live forever with the knowledge that their heart is no longer a “whole”.  In my case, the choice seems quite clear . . . sort of.  One of two options seem to present themselves, but within those two generalities, a myriad of options seem available.  It is sort of like purchasing a new car.  The choice between a Chevy and a Ford is straight forward enough I suppose.  The general product line falls within certain design parameters and as such the consumer would generally be drawn by one firm’s designs more than the other.  A unified design team makes certain that certain design cues are carried from one model to the next and that certainly plays out in our preferences.  Once you have decided that you are a “Ford Man or Woman”, then the unenviable task of selecting the model that best fits your needs complicates the scenario a bit.  Now, I know there are lots of folks that prefer to shop by category rather than brand loyalty.  They choose a type of vehicle, SUV for example, and then weigh the options amongst all the car makers in the available market.  Those people are lost and will take forever to make a decision.  It is then like comparing apples with oranges.  The features and styling are so wildly divergent that selecting the best fit will almost certainly lead to buyers remorse and the “what if” factor that I am trying my best to avoid in life.  I need to keep this decision simple, uncomplicated.  To be honest, my usual methodology for buying a car doesn’t trend toward either of these scenarios.  I like a certain number of vehicles across Make and Model lines.  I like some compacts, some SUV’s and a few Pickup Trucks.  Comparing these is more like comparing Apples with Asparagus.  No longer are we talking about comparing two relatively dissimilar fruit.  Now we are comparing fruits with vegetables.

Yet perhaps it is here that my decision is made.  Do I prefer the sweetness of the fruit or the hearty earthiness of it’s cousin in the vegetable world.  Both have their claims and selecting one is certainly not a betrayal of the goodness found in the other.  Both will provide you the nutrition required for subsistence, but in the end, you will find yourself drawn toward one and regretting the loss of the other.  So it is with this decision before us now.  Do we stay or do we go.  It is as simple as that.  We either pack it in and end this experiment somewhere near our original 2 year commitment and make our way back to the US, or we stay . . . set down roots here in France and push toward senior citizenship.  When put in such concrete terms the decision is quite simple.  Perhaps it is because we have never really left the US in our hearts and as such have not given our lives here in France a fair shake, or perhaps we know that there is value here but the fit back home is simply better for us at this point in our lives.  I rather suspect the latter is true as I could certainly see a scenario where our lives could be much different.  When weighing the very real options, it is clear where my heart is.  It is with my family, and it is with them wherever they long to be, and it seems that their collective hearts are somewhere in the United States of America.  When the transition does finally arrive, I will be sad to bid France farewell.  It has held us and nurtured us like a surrogate mother.  It has offered the best of itself to make us feel comfortable and secure, and tending to someone elses children is no small feat. 

Though in the end we have chosen the apple for it’s sweet presence on our tongues and the Chevy for it’s spacious reliability, we have learned a great deal from eating asparagus drizzled with butter on the luxurious bench seat of our Ford Pickup Truck.  We will miss them both in their own way.  We have learned that the Ford is not so different from the Chevy after all.  Their style is different, but both will carry you in comfort.  And though the asparagus doesn’t tickle our fancy like the sweetness of the apple, the memory of it’s strange flavor on our tongue will have us looking for more whenever the menu provides it.  So, bring on the Chevy full of apples.  Whether that be a Silverado full of Granny Smiths or a Corvette full of Washingtons, we know where our heart truly lies.  Perhaps the greatest lesson of all is that we know that we could easily trade in our Astro Van full of Jonagolds for a Honda full of Sashimi and never be worse for the wear.  We now live a life of based purely on choice,  without regard for any known border, and that is really what this is all about, isn’t it?  In the end, I guess if OUR wishes were horses we would be unable to ride.  He who finds himself fulfilled would prefer to do the walking himself . . . the scenery passes slower that way.  R.

98%: Feeling Crappy with a side of Suckishness

Here is the problem with being 98% healed from any injury or ailment:  2% of the time you feel like shit.  The slightest discomfort reminds you that you cannot return to life as normal and must continue to caudle the weak link in the chain.  It is, to be completely honest, infuriating.  It is why children and dogs make such poor patients.  The moment they feel the slightest bit better, they overexert themselves and inevitably aggravate their injuries.  While most would argue that I act like a child and have the emotional depth of a canine, I still have enough wisdom to take it easy when on the mend.  That doesn’t mean I have to like it, does it?  My increasingly doughy physique is starting to piss me off.  I have training to do, miles to run and weights that need lifting.  The wife is rather insistent that I go to the doctor to have the injury in my lower back examined.  Right now I don’t love the idea, but I am warming to it the longer this condition persists.  The foot is now back to it’s pre-injury status and my amateur diagnosis is a case of tendonitis though it is probably worth a checkup as well if I am forced to the doctor’s office over my back.  I have a rather long transcontinental flight ahead of me and the thought of sitting there for that long with this unpleasant twinge in my lower back has me sweating bullets.  I refuse to believe at the age of 37 that this is a sign of aging.  I am too young for inexplicable injury.  The only thing that I can pinpoint that might be the cause was an impromptu round of football in the yard with my eldest during which I spent some time punting the ball for him to run down.  The pain was not immediate, so perhaps this is simply a slight strain that is taking its sweet ass time to heal.

I think the wife secretly hopes it is a problem with a disk.  Not that she wishes me ill, but rather that I would then be able to share in her misery.  She in fact has an injury that is all but inoperable from our viewpoint.  It causes her a reasonable amount of discomfort and I can imagine now that it borders on unbearable now that I have had a taste of that medicine.  In order to fix her ailment surgically, it would require cracking her chest and shuffling her organs around to gain access.  Given the invasiveness of such a procedure we are none too keen on crossing that bridge just yet.  As for me, I wouldn’t say that this is the worst pain I have ever experienced, but it is certainly inconvenient and a sign that I am not as spry as I once was.  An injury like this 10 years ago would have been right as rain in a day or two.  Now two weeks in, I am beginning to doubt whether I will ever have a pain free day for the remainder of my life.  I know that is not likely to be the case, but it is a reminder that the battle has begun against the sands of time.  It is time to start taking my level of fitness a little more seriously if I plan on lasting for the long haul.  I stopped aging emotionally and mentally somewhere in my twenties and believe in my heart of hearts that I am still that guy.  My eldest son’s reaction to my time on the disabled list has been the most difficult to stomach.  He sees me physically as the guy I believe myself to be.  No reason to doubt this at his age because my physical feats of strength are still far beyond his ability level.  You can see he doubts my complaints.  He is naturally willing me to be back in action.  Just yesterday I begged off on a round of catch in the yard stating that it would likely aggravate my injury.  His shoulders dropped and I apologized for getting old.  Very kindly he reminded me that I am not OLD and my physique is still in good form.  We have been active together, he and I.  He has seen me fight and scrap with guys 10 years my junior and has seen me compete in the martial arts with award winning flourish for my age group.  He knows even with an injured back I can throw him and his brother up over my head with relative ease and doesn’t think twice about using me as a jungle gym.

His optimism is inspiring even on days when I feel more like Clark Kent than Superman.  Somewhere in his enthusiasm I think I have found the answer.  Grit my teeth and endure.  Strengthen those areas that are healthy to pick up the slack for those that are faltering.  I need to workout.  Fortunately the sun has returned to the forecast and its warmth has renewed my enthusiasm.  So much so that the family decided to take a long bike tour yesterday.  We packed a picnic lunch and headed out.  Having my youngest aboard my chariot meant that I had a little more weight to pack around and even the slightest incline required additional exertion.  By the time we returned home, I was tired, but my back felt better than it had in days.  My son is a genius and perhaps the best personal trainer one could hope for.  He expects me to be fit and active and anything less will not meet with resigned approval.  No, Superman I shall be.  So, today I will throw away my black rimmed glasses and dawn my cape.  Being more of a Marvel family perhaps the better analogy is this:  Neither of my boys have ever seen Ironman fall in battle, so they will be damned if their war machine doesn’t rally when duty calls.  So I ask myself . . . where the fuck do I get one of those suits?  Until next time.  R.