|Courtesy of MLusk, Weather Records|
I forgot today's date three times today. Had to ask someone what day it was. That's pure psychology there. This morning in the shower I wondered if I'm not neurotic. And I am. I think I'm neurotic. At the school the lady looked at my son's paperwork, reading out loud "Hispanic." She looked at my eyes, not for very long at all, "You're not Hispanic." No, my wife is. The smile that opens up her face is so sincere it makes me uncomfortable. The lady likes that I have a Hispanic wife.
I blew my nose for about ten minutes today and still didn't get the muck out.
This year, for a short time, I was half my father's age. I will reckon that if everyone lives long enough, and things happened at a relatively average time, one usually finds oneself half one's parent's age. I had not thought about this until today. I was half my mother's age two years ago. It seems relatively likely that a smart mathematics/statistician/probability type would be able, by that information alone, to estimate my age.
Being sick of oneself is equal parts gratitude (appreciation for how great everyone else is), hubris (belief that one has the capability be so much better) and smelling one's own breath.
My wife complained to me that our refrigerator is acting funny. That it's leaking water inside. This on the heels of the revelation that our oven is on the fritz. This circumstance of large appliance breakdown and the pressing need to actually fix them is a sure sign to me that I've gotten too old.
The Roma squad of 2007/2008 played something akin to a 4-6-0. On Saturday I watched Rory Delap launch rockets instead of throw-ins, touching the ball in live play only a half handful of times. I also saw Francesco Totti take a penalty after touching the ball only a handful of times, losing them foolishly on nearly every occasion. The next day I saw Zlatan Ibrahimovic mope around the outside of the eighteen yard box for the whole second half of a game. I'd take Totti and Delap over Ibra any day of the week, as useless as they are.
Sometimes I think the only thing I have in common with my brothers is an outsized and highly ineffectual anger at the idea of injustice. I say outsized, ineffectual and idea of simply to point out how ridiculous my brothers seem to me and how ridiculous I imagine I must seem to other people.
Today I saw a picture of Steffi Graf in a bikini from a bygone era. Boy was she one foxy, manly big-nosed german girl.
My son is not quite a leader. He does not desire to lead. He wants to have a good time and will just as soon follow someone else around as long as they provide it. On the other hand, he already has a highly developed sense of pride. He knows what he wants and he takes great offense when he feels wronged. He has a sense of justice, in other words. I love him for this.
I feel older. My back feels unreasonable, my hamstrings are tight, I get a crick in my neck if I sleep on the wrong pillow. For the first time in my life, I can imagine what it might feel like to be constipated. I worry about butter intake. The cookies in the jar at my office make me irritable. Luckily, I can still conjure up a good feeling of missing something, of romanticizing a memory enough to long for it in that hopeless sort of way that somehow feels rewarding simply by dint of mnemonic existence. This is a good sign.