It strikes me that life here in my twilight years could be quite pleasant. It is certainly well within the realm of possibilities. What more pleasant picture, after all, than that of time slipping away on soft sunset tides under the gentle caress of the tropical breeze and the swaying of coconut trees? Throw in a few rhythmic honey-skinned beauties doing hula sorts of dances on the sand, some cool tropical fruit drinks, a chaise lounge, a swimsuit, a book to read. What else would one need?
But there's the catch. It's that pesky realm of possibilities; for, by definition, the realm includes both the picture painted above as well as many distinctly less pleasant ones. As it is, I am beginning to feel embarrassed by my inability to live up to the basic human obligation to feel fine at least some of the time. Answering that one is not well is reasonable enough on fairly rare occasion, but having to answer the same as a matter of course is a decidedly dreary thing, not only for oneself but for those who must hear it.
Yesterday evening, a couple of nice young women who live in the apartment complex asked whether I would like to accompany them out to 'the night market', where they would eat and stroll, browse and chat, and whatever else nice young women do on these outings. Now I ask you, how many invitations does one get to while away the evening hours in the exclusive company of two strikingly beautiful young women?
My answer?
"No. I can't. I'm not feeling well."
'Good Lord', I thought, watching them skip away arm-in-arm, 'someone give me a cyanide tablet.'
Could I have gone anyway, had as much fun as possible? No, I couldn't. Not without taking the toilet with me.
How bleak it is to really, truly mean 'I can't' when one says 'I can't'.
I begin to hide now when I see people coming, ducking behind the drapes, slipping inside from an exposed position on the porch, lest they pose the dreaded question once again. How are you?
Perhaps eventually they will learn to avoid me altogether. In fact, I am quite sure that they will.
But there's the catch. It's that pesky realm of possibilities; for, by definition, the realm includes both the picture painted above as well as many distinctly less pleasant ones. As it is, I am beginning to feel embarrassed by my inability to live up to the basic human obligation to feel fine at least some of the time. Answering that one is not well is reasonable enough on fairly rare occasion, but having to answer the same as a matter of course is a decidedly dreary thing, not only for oneself but for those who must hear it.
Yesterday evening, a couple of nice young women who live in the apartment complex asked whether I would like to accompany them out to 'the night market', where they would eat and stroll, browse and chat, and whatever else nice young women do on these outings. Now I ask you, how many invitations does one get to while away the evening hours in the exclusive company of two strikingly beautiful young women?
My answer?
"No. I can't. I'm not feeling well."
'Good Lord', I thought, watching them skip away arm-in-arm, 'someone give me a cyanide tablet.'
Could I have gone anyway, had as much fun as possible? No, I couldn't. Not without taking the toilet with me.
How bleak it is to really, truly mean 'I can't' when one says 'I can't'.
I begin to hide now when I see people coming, ducking behind the drapes, slipping inside from an exposed position on the porch, lest they pose the dreaded question once again. How are you?
Perhaps eventually they will learn to avoid me altogether. In fact, I am quite sure that they will.
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