Danmancle's Blog

Note: Peg’s group of girl friends, who semi-annually create havoc in the world, are nicknamed “The Steves” (don’t ask).  As a gift they paid for me to have a massage from their friend.  This was written as a thank you to them awhile ago. Thank you “Steves” for letting me copy this into my blog…

I was going for a massage.  A present to me from the Steves.  What would it be like?  Growing up male and spending a lot of time watching movies and t.v. shows, my personal Walter Mittyish impression of a massage was three-fold.  1) A massage was either an after workout rub down by a big bulky cigar chewing bouncer-like the boxers have after a fight, or a mobster has while he is planning “family” business.  2)or a rub down by a Matilda the Hun Swede (can a Swede actually be a Hun?) who was about 300 lbs and had a twinkle in her eye for pain. 3)or the type of massage advertised in the back of all the tourist seedy papers that promise a sensual pleasure with a topless oriental massage artist (two for one with coupon) showers extra.

I was scared to death.  Any of the three mental pictures would not be acceptable for my experience.  The first two would hurt me, the third-Peg would hurt me.  Besides, I have met Carol (the masseuse) and she is no bouncer, not a Swede, and was not topless, nor oriental when we entered her home.  What was I in for?  What should I expect?  Have the Steves planned some evil trick?  I’ll probably get naked and they will all jump out from behind the closet door with cameras and put a tiara on me and all laugh.  Why had I allowed myself to agree to this “gift” from a group of wild women, who have all had bad experiences with men (maybe not Karen, but she is still young).  Am I the pawn of their group revenge on the male species?  What is going to happen?

Peg and I entered Carol’s home and were greeted with a mini tour, to show Peg the house and to dupe me to a false sense of relaxation.  I was nervous and had to use the bathroom.  I missed the tour.  I could not stall any longer.  It was time.

Carol introduced me to “the room” and, as she departed to give me some privacy, told me to undress and call her when I was ready.  Under any other scenario, that scene and those words have been part and parcel of the male adolescent mind (of which I am a card carrying member in good standing) and would have sent a whole gamut of thoughts wandering in my frightened head.  Those words were all the more freaky sounding with my wife standing 15 feet away.  I cried “Peg”, they laughed  As I finished getting undressed and hung my clothes neatly on the hooks that were designated for my use, I heard Peg say to Carol “he’s  such a wuss.”  Ultimate humiliation-my best friend and loving wife telling the woman who is about to use me that I am a wuss,  and I am standing in my manly blue underwear.

The choice of underwear was not a choice made lightly.  Remember when your mom would say that you needed to have on clean underwear when you go somewhere in case you are in wreck and must go to the hospital-you must not be embarrassed by being seen in dirty “u trou” as my college roommate would say.  Of course she never quite got the fact that if you are in a wreck your underpants are the last thing on your mind-but you have never met my mother.  However, I was pleased to see that Peg had happened to have done a load of laundry the night before my massage and I could be somewhat comforted in the knowledge that I could wear my blues and not a ratty old pair of whites.  Keep in mind that his was important to me, in my fear of the impending.  When Carol told me get undressed and get under the sheet (back to adolescent thoughts), I said “everything but my underwear, right?”  She hesitated and said yes.  I was a wuss.  They knew it.  I suppose everybody else just jumped in all naky. But no, not Dan-he needs his blankie.  I was doomed.  I got under the sheet and called for Carol.  I felt like a pig in a blanket.

Carol entered the room and used this amazingly pleasant soothing voice.  I had heard that women possessed such a voice, but it is a rare occurrence-I must say that it almost caught me off guard.  These women can be very tricky.  It is usually used in the early stages of dating and usually disappears after marriage.  It sounded very nice.  I resisted, and tensed up.  I had too many thoughts twisted in my head (the cold medication was not being helpful in discerning thoughts).  How relaxed was I supposed to be ?  Do I stay tense to avoid any sense of enjoyment or worse yet-what if it felt pleasurable?  What if it feels too good?

What if it feels goose bumpy?  What if it feels sensual?  What if …you know…I get…excited?  Come on now-think about it-an attractive woman with soft hands, soothing music, my face is covered.  Would she laugh out loud? – I would crawl home without caring.  Maybe a stranger would see me and run me over and put me out of my misery (at least I had on clean underwear for the hospital).  Would she yell and call for Peg who was still sitting in the next room?  I would be divorced for doing nothing.  Worse yet-what if Carol wouldn’t even notice .  Oh the angst of it all-where is the old man with the cigar?  Give me the Hun.

Carol soothingly began her very incredible, wonderful massage.  She told me to ask any questions but that she would mostly be quiet and allow the music and sounds to help me relax.   She told me that at any time I felt discomfort, that I should just yell “more lotion” (again, back to adolescent thoughts-the image of Peg sitting in the next room and me yelling “more lotion” just strikes a funny chord).

The hour was over before it began.  Carol left the room and told me to get dressed.  What do I do now?  Do I make the bed?  Do I leave a tip?

I felt the release of tension in my neck and shoulders.  It was a very rewarding experience from a very good professional massage therapist-I am impressed.  I survived.  I nearly fell asleep.  No more angst.  I asked Carol if I could put in another quarter.  I got dressed and slowly drank the filtered Brita room temperature glass of water that was waiting for me.  I took in the ambiance of the room, read over Carol’s certificates and her mission statement.  Very classy!  I’ll be back-even in my ratty whites-who cares?

What a beautiful Sunday it was.  Perfect – have coffee, read the paper, do some chores then in the afternoon I can go play a couple hours of soccer in a weekly pick up match, and then settle in to watch the NBA playoffs.  Oh wait!  I’m sorry.  That was my alternate universe scenario – no, this was Mother’s Day.  On Mother’s Day I do whatever my lovely bride asks me to do .    And then on Father’s Day I do whatever my lovely bride asks me to do.  And then on our anniversary I do whatever… you see by now that a pattern has been established.  That also explains the huge W I have tattooed on my chest.

In honor of Mother’s Day, I agreed to go with Peg on a new adventure that she had just become interested in through our friend Joni. (Note to self – curse Joni). We were going to have a fun time at Hot Yoga class.  Hot Yoga is known as a form of Bikram Yoga.  It is unofficially known as a form of hell.   It was a popular activity during the Spanish inquisition, and again in the Salem witch trials.

Here is the program – 90 minutes of yoga positions in a room that is kept at 105 degrees – thus “hot” yoga.   Not a minute nor a degree less.  I can do this.  I play soccer, golf, work out, attend water aerobics, dance – piece of cake.  OMG I thought I would die – I hoped I would die.  How do people do this?  Why do people do this?  I was in a room with several female Gumbys  and a teenage boy.   He attended with his mother and sister for their Mother’s Day idea of “fun”.  He is being taught early – I saw the faint outline of the letter W starting to glow on his chest.

I can’t even tie my shoes without falling over – these yoga positions were impossible.   I don’t understand the reason why I should want to put my right leg behind my neck and stick my toe in my left ear while standing on my left leg and my left arm is around my back and in my right ear , in 105 degree heat.  “Now hold for 60 seconds and relax,  just breathe” the instructor would say.

There are 26 “positions” to be performed in multiple sets.  The positions have unusual names such as “half moon”, “standing bow”, “triangle”, “cobra”,  “locust”.   I actually was really good at two of the positions – “awkward pose” and “dead body”  pose!

 An hour had gone by.  It seemed like days.   I had joked to myself before we began that I hoped I would not get in some odd position and fart really loud.  Turned out that was the least of my worries.  Not only do you twist yourself into positions that a man is not meant to be in – but you get to watch your own pain since the entire wall you stare at is all mirror.   I looked like shamu being water boarded!   It got hotter and hotter, and harder and harder.  All the little Gumbys were headlong into their lotus/dead bow/eagle stands, while I kept falling over and groaning.  I thought I was mumbling under my breath when I said to myself  “this is impossible, no way”, but the acoustics must be different when one is twisted upside down and in pain because the instructor would look at me and say to the class “yes, it can be done, just relax into it and breathe”.   That’s like telling someone to relax into it and just breathe as they are being chased by an ax murderer.   It got hotter and hotter.   After what seemed like hours,  the instructor said “now is a good time to relax and take a sip of water”.   A sip of water?  How about a gallon of iced tea and a beer .   Of course I could not move my arms to pick up the water bottle.  My sweat was now sweating.   I couldn’t concentrate on the next position – I was trying to suavely figure out how to throw up and not be caught – oh right – the room is one big mirror!!!

I finally had to surrender – I lost – I am a wuss. I sat and watched the last 10 minutes.  Well I actually couldn’t see much through the tears.  I sat in a pool of sweat and hoped that someday I would be able to stand up to leave the building.  Maybe they could turn off the lights and just let me stay overnight.  On our way out the instructor said “don’t feel too badly – I had a man who weighed over 350 lbs come to class and he had difficulty also”. Obviously I made quite an impression.

Will I try it again? Somehow even with all that heat, the W did not wash off.

What determines how or when we decide to get a dog?  Breed? color?, size?, a special birthday?, Christmas surprise?, the wag of a tail?, personality?, protection?, companionship?

She had been viciously attacked and abandoned.  Trust was very hard to come by.  It was not easy to be around strange people.  Maybe it was time to get a dog.

A coworker had a plan.  The coworker needed to find a home for a stray, abandoned dog.  A new “family” would begin.

Layla was the dumbest smart dog I ever met.  Layla was beautiful – short black shiny hair, about 40 lbs and perfectly formed for a mutt. Though she was scary at first sight, she was the most gentle of dogs. Her mixed breed (a chow mix) looked like a cross between a pit bull and black lab made her appear like she would take off your hand with any quick movement , yet she had no problem with children wanting to pet her.

I was new to her home, and it was her home.  Layla eventually knew that I was here to stay, but she really did not care. As long as I spoke gently, gave her food and let her out – we would live in peace. Layla was a few years old when I came on the scene, so she had established her own routine.  She was not a run and fetch dog, more like “hey, you threw it – you can go get it, leave me alone”.

When I first came into her life she was on a wire “run” in the back yard.  Every day when Peg and I came home from work,  Layla would have wrapped her line around the crepe myrtle next to the deck so her head was almost attached to the tree.  Repetition was not an effective training tool.  We finally fenced in the back yard giving her free reign of her kingdom.  Layla was a good companion and protector for Peg – I was to be endured. Don’t get me wrong,  Layla was ok with me being around, but she kept looking at me with that  “why are you still here?” look.  If I was “Timmy in the well”, she would go take a nap somewhere.  She had her own way of getting even with me for being in her realm.  She was constantly licking herself – LOUDLY – somehow she thought she was a cat in a dog’s body – it would drive me nuts – and she knew it!  I could not sleep when she started her routine.  Peg was oblivious to it all.  I would start by whispering to Layla to stop – she just got louder.  I would take a sock to bed to throw at her as soon as Peg would fall asleep – but she would not stop.  I started snapping my fingers at her, to no avail.  I snapped so much It sounded like a flamenco dancer was in the room.  She would look at me every morning with her doggy grin as if to say “so how much sleep did you get last night – huh?  By the way, while you are at work, I will be napping – have a nice day.”

Layla provided a few memorable moments that keep her legacy alive.  Not many dogs actually attempt suicide, or come back from the dead, but Layla was not a normal dog.

Peg answered the phone.  I could tell from her reaction that it was not a good call.  We were in Savannah on our first trip together when she got the bad news – Layla had run away.  Somehow in a blink of an eye she just bolted.  She was fast, and sneaky, a trait that would surface over and over. The dog sitter was mortified that it could happen on her watch – what should she do?  Since we were not due back for another day, there was not much to do but hope she came back.  When we got home we spent hours driving around the neighborhood calling her name – a gesture fueled by hope, but without result.  We hoped she was OK, that she would not suffer wherever she was.  She had suffered enough. Abandoned and roaming free before coming to Peg, it was obvious in her bearing and behavior that she had been abused enough as a puppy.

After Layla had been missing 3 days and 3 nights, Peg got a call – Layla was found. She was never very far away after all. There is a very large and old cemetery that abuts our back yard.  It is a very distinguished cemetery in fact.  It is quite historical, and has a section reserved for confederate soldiers. It is often busy, but at night is dangerous – not a place for a stroll, or a place to be lost.  Layla never cried out or barked when she was in pain or needed anything – a trait that would not serve her well. The caretaker had found Layla with her leash wrapped around several bushes that kept her bound up. Since she had been lost in the tombs for 3 days and then reappeared – we called her Jesus dog after that.

Layla loved the cemetery – every time she disappeared she could be found roaming the paths of the cemetery. She found a small hole in the wire fence along the back yard behind the forest of bamboo that has invaded the space between us and the cemetery.  We had to trick her into jumping through it one day just so we could find it to close it up.  Until we found it, we had lots of conspiracy theories as to how she always would escape to the cemetery.

Since she did not cry when in pain, her “suicide” attempt went temporarily undiscovered.  We had  decided to make the back deck wider.  This created a problem with Layla’s favorite hideaway “hole”.   You see, we had left out a portion of the deck’s lattice to form a “door hole” for Layla to get under the deck where she would hide – it was her safe place.  However, when I reconstructed the new deck , I put the “door” in a different spot.  I assumed it would be better for appearances and was just as accessible for Layla.  Oops!  Layla whimpered a bit that night and was not too spry coming up to the bedroom.  In the morning, as I went to pet her she finally let out a cry.  We figured out what had happened when we took her to the vet.  Layla apparently went running full speed across the yard and dove head first into her “doorway” as always to get to her favorite place.  Not exactly!  She ran into where the old “hole” used to be out of habit, and smashed the wooden lattice and punctured her chest with a piece. Attempted suicide we declared.

Layla gave us fodder for many more tales of wonder and woe after that one, but was always a great companion.  She would always, always be standing at the gate in the driveway when we pulled in with the car.  As we opened the gate and got out of the car, Layla would howl and prance around all excitedly like she just won the doggy lottery. She would lead us up the deck stairs to the back door acting like we had been gone for weeks, when it would be only minutes. She acted like she was the happiest dog in the whole world because her two best friends just came back home and she was letting us know she missed us.

She was a good friend. We miss her still.

Wow – were going on a road trip.  It has been quite a while since we have gone somewhere that took more than a couple of hours of driving.  How nice – we don’t have to weigh the ”carry on” bags and make sure of course that they don’t conform to fit in the imaginary lines drawn on the board at the airport terminals.  We can make them as big and bulky as we want.  We don’t even have to zip them shut if we don’t want to – so there! We can take snacks and carry bottled water past the security check point – which is actually the driveway sidewalk.  We can pick out CDs to play – which means we pick out 83 CDs and wind up playing 3 of them over and over again.  It is always a challenge to see how far we can drive while keeping the same radio station on as it fades to nothing but static.

Road trip rules are fun.  The driver controls the temperature, and the passenger controls the music/radio/CD.  The object is to divide the driving time as equally as possible to the Dan driving time system – Dan drives until Peg realizes that it has been too long, then, Peg drives.  It actually becomes a 2:1 ratio in Dan’s favor.  It is amazing how the length one drives decreases with age. In college I could drive 12 hours to go someplace, then turn around the next day and drive 12 back – no problem.  Now a 3 hour drive takes 4 with all the pee stops, and is exhausting.  I still like to yell “moo cows” whenever I see a herd close to the road – I know they can hear me “moo” because I can see them roll their eyes and give me the middle hoof gesture.

There is something I cannot fathom.  The state of Virginia has road signs posted upon entering the state that say “ SPEED LIMIT ENFORCED BY AIRCRAFT”.   Seriously .  This is amazing –and very scary.  I could imagine speed limits being monitored by aircraft but there is no way to enforce by aircraft – I hope.  Can you imagine the conversation in the cockpit?  “Ah pilot to co-pilot – we have a speeder down there,  Joe  – about 4:00 due south-east.  What do you think Joe – should we use the short bombs or go all out and use the napalm?”  “Well Bob, it looks like an out-of-state license – let’s use the napalm and teach them a lesson. – I’ll radio in for back up.”  I spend most of the drive through Virginia looking up towards the sky – and it’s all their fault.  Cars need to be equipped with anti-aircraft ballistics.

Road trips are most fun but angst ridden when we reach our destination. The joy of crossing the finish line is short-lived as I soon begin plotting the return trip – how will I repack the car, did I take the correct route, should we leave a little sooner than planned, what will the weather be like when we leave – I am exhausted already  and I just said hello upon arrival. But I never have to put my chair back into the upright position or lock my tray table.  But the cows wished I would fly.

I saw my Grandfather this morning.  Considering that he died 17 years ago, it was quite a shock.  No, this is not a ghost story.  Most people look at old photos of their grandparents to see what they looked like.  I just get to look in the mirror.  It wasn’t that many years ago that I began to realize that I was becoming my Papa Charlie in both physical attributes and mannerisms.   My facial features, profile, and  body shape  all began looking like his.  All the goofy things he would do and say that would make me roll my eyes and groan are mysteriously being  transferred to me.   I was young and stubborn, and he was old and narrow-minded – never the twain should meet.

Actually he was not that old.  He was only 38 when I was born which allowed us to have 43 years together.  Most grandchildren do not get that many years.  He got to see me grow up, and got to see his great granddaughters.  At the time, though, I did not realize the gift that it truly was.  No matter what I did he would tell me I was stupid.  I hated it, and because of that I would keep up my wall to match his. He was right – I was stupid.  All he ever wanted was for me to be happy.  Whenever things would go wrong, they would seem to work out for the best – and he was always like a shadow in the background.

 Good grandparents don’t need front row seats, or to be listed in the program; they just want us to be happy and taken care of.  He spent his life wanting me to be happy.  He did not tell me what to do or where to go or how to be – but was always there as a constant safety net.  I really miss him.  I have so many things I want to explain to him.  I want to hear another of his silly jokes.  By the time I figured out how much he loved me, he was gone.  I really was stupid.  Actually I think he still hangs around as a shadow in the background.

 I wish my future grandchildren could have met him – they would like him – no, they would love him. He would just want them to be happy – and do everything possible to make it happen.

Last year I went to my stepfather’s funeral in Ohio. I arranged to meet my youngest brother at his hotel the day before.  I had not seen my brother in over 20 years.  He saw me drive up and walked out to the parking lot to greet me.  After a big hug his first words to me were  “ Oh my God, Danny, when I saw you get out of your car, I thought you were Papa Charlie”.  That was the best thing he could have ever said.

 I wish I could see Papa Charlie again – well actually, I do, every time I look in the mirror.

I think too much. At least I think I think too much. I’ve thought a lot about thinking, and I think there is a lot to think about. I have been told that I “over think” things. How can that be? If you don’t think about something – it must not exist, right? So if you think about something, how can you over think it? I think we all use the thought about thinking quite a bit – just think about it – we hear the phrases like “I thought about you today”, “just go home and think about it”, “think it over”, ”I think it’s just fine”,” I think you will be ok”, Oh I don’t think so..” “think about that!”. If someone says “well, I don’t think much about him/her” aren’t they really actually thinking about him/her at that time. People always want our opinion and then will say “what do you think?” – see I am even asked to think.

 Granted I don’t quite look like the marble  “ Thinker” (although we are both quite chiseled) but I find myself often in the thinking mode. I don’t “over think” but I do think too much. What was he thinking when he posed for that sculpture? Did he ever cramp up? Did he have to get up and pee? Did he get cold – oh my, it’s starting already.

 See –here’s what I mean: This morning, Peg says “it’s going to be 90 degrees today”. OK just a simple statement casually made over a bowl of cereal, but my mind gears up and starts warming to the task – not enough to alert the brainiacs that would want to study me, or too weird to get the white jackets ready  – but just enough to set off my think tank. “90 you say”?, well do I open windows at 8:00 and close at noon? Do I set fans at slow then move to high? When do I turn them off? Do I go outside now or at 4:00, what should I do first?  Should I cut the grass when it is cool, or cut it later when I could get a good sweat? Should I use the grass bagger or let the clippings fall into the newly cut blades? When should I get my impatiens planted? Is it still possible for a frost? Then I would have to plant twice. The winter plants still look good. Last year I waited too long. Should I unhook the outside water hose in case it still frosts? Should I put shorts on now or wait another hour? What about that fan in the attic that needs fixing? You know that Bob the squirrel will leave the attic if it’s too hot – maybe just wait on that ,  but then the man will charge more since it is too hot to work, and he will want me to help him and I will get all yucky and it will be hard to breathe. How did he decide to do this kind of work? Can you get training for hot work, or does it just happen?  Maybe the trash men will be early today since it is so hot – and really not supposed to be. Do morning tv weather persons like the strange weather or do they like the same old stuff. How early do they have to get up to be at the TV station in the morning? Do they ever get to watch the Late Show with David Letterman. Why did our tv weather man decide to move on our street, where did he live before?  Does he like our street? Maybe I will put shorts on now. Should I put on tan ones or the blue ones that I need to break in more? If I shower now, I will just have to do it all over again if I work outside and get all sweaty – but I don’t want to stink if I go to the store – maybe no one will care. Should I go to the store first , then cut grass? Does Peg have a list of things… “sorry hon, what did you say?” That was all before she got the word “today” out of her mouth.  Just think about it, I know I will.

Employers of the world unite- please- and give me a job – save me from the horrible fate in which I am currently entrapped! No, not unemployment – even worse – I am being held hostage by the desires of a beautiful woman. Oh wah wah you say -I know what you’re thinking – I should not be complaining. You just don’t understand!

 Actually it’s really my own fault for trying to please her and doing it so well. It could be my consistent steady stroke and delicate touch. It could be that I can go for hours at a time, and usually get better as I get warmed up.  At least she lets me do it to soft jazz. The music keeps me focused and on task – hard rock tends to get me off rhythm. But enough is enough, people – bedroom to bedroom, day after day – even asking me to do it in the hallways and on the stairs. For heaven’s sake, I am only human – every day my neck and legs hurt from being in so many different positions. Ironically as my stamina increases, I am asked to do even more!

What should I do? Should I feign an illness?- claim that I have a headache? –come up lame? I need some rest.  I really hope she doesn’t tell her friends, and then they want me too. Imagine being pimped out – oh the shame – or is it glory? Then their husbands will have “P” envy and you know how men talk – I’ll have to be constantly proving myself!

  How did this happen? It began in college when I did it all the time – actually got pretty good at it – even helped pay my way through school doing it. I should have never shown her that I was that good.

 All this angst just because my wife DESIRES to have all the rooms in our house repainted – yes PAINTED – what were you thinking??

Most people have a strong opinion about golf. Peg thinks it’s stupid and boring (she has never tried it) and says “it’s just stupid men with little balls and sticks”. It’s difficult, exciting, humbling, humiliating, exasperating, exhilarating, and I usually want to quit as soon as I start playing. One of my golf buddies swears each time we play that it is his last round and tries to sell us his clubs – but is the first to make a tee time on a nice day. More important than the golf is the “golf buddies” relationships. You have heard the expression “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas”? Well that was stolen from “what happens on the golf course stays on the golf course”. I was at a funeral a few years ago – one of those where people can stand up and say anything they want about the deceased. I was in shock when a man stood up and began to expound on unsavory events that occurred with his “friend” on the golf course. He should have been struck down with a 3 iron for such blasphemy!! My golf buddies have listened to my whining and stories for decades now – they have seen my children grow up and watched me go through all kinds of personal stuff – but they leave it all on the 18^th green just as soon as we all sink our “double bogey max” putts on the last hole. We share stories –that are usually quite embellished .  We share jokes that we have heard a hundred times yet still guffaw over. We call each other names that would never be heard in public. We are allowed to be as stupid and juvenile as possible when we play golf together. I have been known to use a few words to express myself (usually after an errant tee shot) that I would never use in any other forum. Hand gestures and verbal abuse are common place in our group – and often encouraged. We have developed our own phraseology for common occurrences on the course (I am not permitted to divulge any). We have names for our different golf shots that cannot be shared outside our group. We have landmarks on various courses that usually invoke a “remember when” story. We have shared a few comments with outsiders, but they just don’t get it.  Occasionally an outsider will play golf with us and usually stand in awe as me and my buddies carry on. It is a closed club – a few have tried to enter the fray but just aren’t ready– we have very low standards that most can’t measure down to. I’ve heard of men giving up the game when their golf buddy group breaks up. We know things about each other that no one else would know. We keep secrets that are considered legally binding – it’s like a lawyer-client privilege – “I’m sorry judge but I wish to invoke my golf buddy privilege” – no judge would ask any more questions – it’s the law. So when I die, my golf buddies will stand silently with their little balls and sticks and just smile and add hand gestures…

I read an article in the Sunday Parade magazine about a young actress/singer. She states in the article that “I finally know who I am”. She stated that she was too young to know before, but now that she is the ripe old age of 17, she now knows.  Sweetie – no disrespect, but I am 60 and I still don’t know who the heck I am. We change, we evolve, we learn, we experience, we grow, we fail, we suffer, we gain, we lose, we win, we are always becoming “who we are”. I am not who I was at 17 or 27 or 37 or 47  – you get my point. It would be odd if we did not change – if life did not change us. To be the same, stagnant, never developing would be truly sad.  We meet people who change us. We get married, have children, get a job or two or three – all things change us. At 21 I knew everything about life. At 60, I know very little about life. Who am I? . Did I change? Did I just rearrange priorities? Did I have an epiphany?   Did I get smarter, dumber? Am I a result of environment?, education?,gene pool?, friends?,associates?,predestination? I am the most settled, happy, peaceful, contented, satisfied and gratified as I have been my whole life. Granted, most of that is because of my soul mate, love, and best friend Peg (all the same person). But we are very, very different persons from each other – which is not only amazing but healthy. I can be me with her, and she can be herself with me. But am I really different now than at 17 – or has knowledge, experiences, suffering, and joy merely filtered through my soul like a Mr. Coffee machine and processed out as different personality traits and philosophies while my essence has remained constant? Did God establish who I am? Has this been a 60 year journey to figure it out – does time run out before we figure it out? Are we on a shot clock? It would be just my luck to be standing around one day and suddenly realize “holy shit – I finally figured it all out” as I get hit by the proverbial bus. Who am I? This week I am Mr. Dan – who could ask for anything more…

It is such a fun thing to go to the pool. There is a benefit to  keeping our Y membership while I am out of work. The exercise is good both physically and mentally. It is also fun to use the big pool. Peg is the actual swimmer – she does laps and swims the proper way – like they do in the olympics – you know, stroke, breathe, stroke, breathe etc. Not me. I could never get the timing down right. I would always open my mouth on the wrong head turn and get a mouthful of water – not fun. So, I  do not swim properly – I usually grab a noodle or two, stick them between my legs and paddle around. I feel like an adventurer floating down the amazon river discovering new lands – me and my blue noodle! Sometimes there are other children in the pool – they look at me like I am a weird old man – seems to be a trend in my life lately…

I remenber taking the kids to pools when they were little. They (like all kids) really got excited about going to the pool – but how many times do parents need to hear “marco”,” polo” when they are trying to enjoy some relaxing time around the pool?  Marco,  Polo – what the heck – who came up with this game? I don’t know  which became more annoying – “marco”,  “polo”  800 times or “Dad ,look look look, watch this” 800 times? How many times is a cannon ball jump endearing?  To be honest  I miss it. 800  times are not  nearly enough. Maybe I can get Peg to start yelling Marco to my Polo next trip to the Y.