Not crying, just thinking too hard

October 17, 2024

Autumn sets in gradually around here. It’s cool enough for long sleeves, the sun goes down at dinnertime instead of after “Jeopardy,” and our sugar maple is blushing orange and yellow. Halloween doodads are sprouting all over the neighborhood too, but that’s a human choice, not from nature.

Age is creeping into my life the same way: a stiff knee, some new pills, nothing apocalyptic so far. What’s taken up residence lately is a tenacious case of the regrets. Like Mr. Sinatra, I’ve had a few. With a milestone birthday happening, they feel like a fully loaded Freightliner or Peterbilt rolling into my mental weigh station every morning and night.

Why did I pass up job opportunities? Not work harder, better, and smarter at all the gigs I had? Try to be “cool” instead of trusting my real self? Let “friends” walk all over me like a dollar-store rug? So often settle for less than I deserved? Waste time sweating the trivial stuff?

I’m not too sunk in ennui to see the irony. By lamenting disarranged bovine secretions — crying over spilled milk — I’m squandering even more time. It’s just tough when the bad old days look like my only old days and my new days will be fewer than I’d like.

I need to remember that once in a blue moon, usually with help from my real friends and the people I love, I do something right. A few years ago, my wife and I made the painful but crucial decision to sell our Florida beach house before climate change took it. Whatever happens to us, we won’t be like the folks who lost everything in Helene and Milton, asking why they ever put down roots in a hurricane zone.

We adapted to the changes in our world and ourselves, which is about all any of us can do to cope with the march of time. Who knows, someday I might learn to keep myself ennui free (and not use dopey rhymes in public).