Thankfully—being as vainglorious as I am—I have the majority of my hair.
I have all of my wisdom teeth. No small feat, but my dentist friend tells me my voluminous oral cavity can handle it. When you’re participating in a rousing match of Chubby Bunny, however, those additional choppers are a liability.
Tonsils dangle at the posterior of my oral cavity. Just as they did as a child.
I was forced to jettison my appendix but I see that as a clear advantage when I travel to foreign lands and explore wilderness areas. I understand some diehard adventurers have their appendixes (appendicii?) removed prophylactically.
After all, it’s a vestigial organ we can easily do without.
I have all of my appendages, though the thumbs of both hands have long been gnarled by old football injuries and my feet are not as pretty as I wish they were. My father—for some odd, never-revealed reason—took great pride in his feet. He often bragged about their symmetry and flawless appearance. In hindsight, he could have made money with them working for Dr. Scholl’s or being a foot model for a photo bank. I don’t know if it was the Marine drill sergeant in him or not, but he insisted all of his offspring walk with our feet in perfect alignment with our shoulders and our toes pointed forward. He would have none of his kids caught duck-walking or knock-kneed.
Or else.
I am no smarter or dumber at math since I graduated from high school, but that’s not saying much.
I am no smarter or dumber at English since my last high school class, but as much as I like Vampire Weekend’s song, Oxford Comma and, as often as I have looked up the definition of an Oxford comma, I still couldn’t tell you what it is and, unlike Winona Ryder’s character in Reality Bites when it came to the definition of irony, I wouldn’t feel confident saying I know it when I saw it. There might be several, or none, in that previous sentence, for all I know.
Be sure to watch to the end.
My right shoulder gave up the ghost some time back and a sports medicine doctor at Virginia Mason Sports Medicine clinic had the temerity to tell me—in so many words—to “get over it”. I had to badger him to get an x-ray, because I couldn’t pony up for an MRI, but all it revealed was a minute ‘knob’ that may or may not be the culprit preventing me from throwing overhand strikes from all corners of a softball diamond or knocking the wind out of swimmers at the bottom of Boulder Drop with a throw bag toss to the chest.
Fortunately, for me, you toss horseshoes underhanded and underhanded throw bag heaves can be just as effective when you are trying to rescue a swimmer.
My eyesight is no better or worse than ever and, unlike those whose eyesight was always ‘perfect’, I can still read without reading glasses (or any glasses at all) while those 20/20 folks (or better) are hemming and hawing about whether they actually need glasses, or they’re constantly misplacing their ‘readers’ just when they need them the most. I—having worn glasses and contacts since the day I told my mom my name was “James, not Butch” (which would have been the 5th grade)—am happy to read their restaurant bill for them, the ingredient list on the back of the cereal box or the fine print on a waiver form.
According to the medical examiners I go to, in order to receive the medical certificate required for being a bus driver, my hearing is excellent. They say, it’s the equivalent of a lynx or Arctic fox. (I’m just kidding. I made that up.) Of course, I could have told them that, because I know how fine-tuned I am to every little sigh, creak and groan in my house whether it’s the house settling or my dog, Sally, needing something. I’ve marveled for years at my ability to tune out the rattle and clanging of passing freight trains while I’m asleep on the Deschutes River and, yet, in the same locale, the slightest stirring nearby indicating a needy dog or a marauding raccoon will have me at attention and wide awake in a split second.
I attribute it to how in-touch I am with my inner Neanderthal.
Speaking of Neanderthals, it brings to mind a non sequitur.
You know how every now and then when you are sitting around with a group of friends or family or acquaintances and suddenly there’s a lull in the conversation? It can be somewhat regular. As often as every seven minutes or so. The theory is that’s a behavior from our cave dwelling days when it was a matter of life or death to do a ‘predator check’. Think about it next time a “pregnant pause” interrupts the chatter at your dinner party.
Remember—predators come in all forms.
As you might be able to tell, it’s been a slow news week in my mind. I’ve been in dire need of a respite from the repetitive indignations, profanations and profound, as well as petty, crimes that wash up daily on our newsfeeds, doorsteps and airwaves. I found that respite on the cusp of what’s looking like a post-COVID world in a newfound love.
So, I thought I should take inventory of what I have, since I can now say it includes a joie de vivre I have dearly missed.
Like Winona, I can’t recite a definition off the top of my head, but I know it when I’m feeling it.
The state of the human race. Captured in one moment.
Also, I think there has been about a dozen shootings since Steve reposted this.
This is downright charming. I loved it - and you. ( your big sister, in case anyone is curious).
Wow 😯 I think I’m jealous…