Rolling with the Punches

To avoid becoming as weak, shaky and confused as Ozzy Osbourne, I’ve been working on reducing my alcohol intake over the past while.  The body and brain just can’t process as much anymore.  I’m sorry to say, but at my age it’s time to face the fact that I can’t party like it’s 1999 for the remainder of my life.

But here’s something absolutely fantastic that happened as a result.  Now that I drink a very small amount of white wine, I can buy nice bottles of local products.  Last night I had a couple of glasses of a Gehringer riesling that was like a little bit of Heaven.

After 22 years of continuous use, the Beam built-in vacuum packed it in.  The repairman said it appeared to have been here decades prior to that, so it certainly didn’t owe anyone anything.  I now have a lovely new one, but at $700 it should be wearing a faux leopard skin coat or something.

Even as I type this the nice junk removal man is here getting rid of a pile of stuff on the driveway.  I can’t stand having refuse in the yard, though it’s a losing battle.  Most of the detritus on that pile is due to Nicky and his projects.

I don’t know why, but so far every single day of 2012 I’ve felt wild with excitement.  I read that excellent book, The Wealthy Barber Returns, and I’m suddenly all pumped with the idea of saving.  How someone who buys everything second-hand can save even more, I’m not sure.

There’s a show about cheap people on TV, and I enjoy watching it and perhaps will take some lessons from them.  Liz reminded me the other day of how we really were on the cutting edge when we were washing paper towels during lunch hour back in grade three.

Another show I watch from time to time on that same channel involves brides looking for a wedding dress.  The thing I love is that the brides are often close to 400 pounds, and they invariably choose a strapless gown.  I think I would’ve been an excellent, involved spectator at the coliseum in Rome.

Here’s an interesting thing that happened recently.  As my memory’s shot, I’ll quickly write something onto a note pad, so that I’ll remember it later.  I was on my way out this morning, and remembered a couple of things I wanted to do upon my return and jotted them down.

When I got home, I read the first word on the list, “Petersen.”  I spent about two hours wondering what in the name of God in Heaven Petersen meant.  Finally, a eureka moment.  Petersen is the local plastic surgeon with whom I have to make an appointment to see what can be done about this face.

Even though the body can be improved with fitness, and the face can be improved with a scalpel, nothing can help the memory.  It appears even words written onto a notepad no longer work, so that’s an interesting and somewhat alarming development.

But as with all challenging things, we boomers simply have to adjust and roll with the punches.

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