Throwback :May 2019 (exerpt from a work in progress)

Saturday 5/11/19

Early train last night and I could not have run down the hill to watch it. Kids were whooping and laughing in the playground at 8:30 PM. As I retired ahead of the last of the evening light. Between the gobble of wild turkeys and screaming youngins, I thought if I was in the neighborhood this would annoy me. But I wasn’t in the neighborhood. I’m very outside of the triple pane windows in the big screen force-feeding of entertainment and the climate-controlled collections of stuff. Tired enough to give in to the CPAP and a blanket I disconnected from awareness for nine hours. Nine hours! That seems to be my limit. When I shut off the machine which forces me to breathe I feel hungover. My head tells me I’ll be behind dehydrated. Water will be the first and ongoing order of the day. The phone promises sunny and in the 80s but I already know that from the view through the sunroof. The CPAP says I was breathing all night. Blood sugar is also the best ever, with room for improvement, but good. Readouts are promising all over the space where I hide.

Even though I’m away from it all and unplugged, the mothership’s innards look a lot like a lair for one of the villains that populated Gotham city in the Batman series from the 70s. Everything is tilted at an odd angle filled with strange devices, secret compartments conceal all the things I need for my next caper.

Dressed and breakfast behind me, I realize that I’m hearing the train again. Resort lady boasts that unlike the resort on the opposite shore the train doesn’t run through the center of the campground. Trains are what I am all about however and this irregular schedule vexes me.

Nearly missing the train before I make it to the end of the dock, I force myself to watch a pair of loons for 10 minutes in the excruciatingly bright and warm reflections off the lake. This is my moment of Zen before I go up to the store where I startle the Lady of the lake as she sorts last night’s ice cream delivery. Apologetically I explained I try not to scare the crap out of people but it’s a bad habit and I can’t quite shake it, having gone so far as to wear squeaky shoes when I worked at the airport.

Having filled my insulated coffee cup and collected the morning allotment of banter I stride up the hill. This is today’s exercise. Then I move with the sun for the rest of the morning while I start to read the backlog of magazines which keep coming even though I have never ordered any.

Most notable in today’s collection is an article about the new and improved Jag-you-RRR P250. At a modest $40,000 this entry-level car is so bland on the outside that I hope the interior lives up to the cushy promises of “artful touchable water bottle accommodating luxury” and the option of paddle shifters.

This article offends me.

It’s not the price rapidly approaching what I paid for my first home. It’s not the missing feline one expects to adorn the center of the leading edge of the hood. I can even accept the ethnically inclusive model who rests her underfed posterior on the fender of the car (a thing that she would never never do if it was actually her car) because it suggests such a lovely woman will be so in charge of her own forward momentum as to own such a car with no help from anyone who might demand ethical compromises for her to succeed in life. Hooray for that!

What offends me is a bike rack clamped to the top of this pleasant English built car. A bike rack! You do not clamp a bike rack onto a Jaguar! In all of the USA, there is no place that you can park a jaguar and expect it to be unviolated while you sail off for a ride on a $5000 bike. A Jaguar never ever, for any reason, needs a bike rack.

You are driving and effing Jaguar for God’s sake! If you have enough money for that you can buy a second cheaper car to park in untended areas while you air your butt cushioned environment choking virgin plastic infused spandex bike shorts. Otherwise, you need to hire someone to watch over that car while you are away and maybe hire another person to protect you on the $5000 bike. I find myself really salty about this.

It is not that I cannot appreciate the internal sense of satisfaction one can have by owning a car that says “I worked hard and am worthy.” The thing is after one has gotten to that point, one should also learn how much less one worries about say the minivan called “lumpy” while riding just as far down the trail on a $99 big box special (front basket included for my water bottle) in a pair of comfy loose-fitting mom jeans. Having paid less for the beater with the heater (inclusive of legroom and air conditioning too) than the destination charge for the Jaguar I am not melting down or ruining my downtime because the fuel pump failed and it can’t be looked at for another week or more. I’m not wondering if someone will steal the ornament off the front of the car (there is none) nor feel cheated that it doesn’t have one.

It’s perfectly okay if you WANT WANT WANT to have a Jaguar but a Jaguar does not need a bike rack. Skip the special order extra 49 horses of P300 R-dynamic (whatever that is)and buy a used minivan with a dent in the door. You will sleep better at night.

You’ll be a little bit happier and can still have nice things as well.

The rest of the magazine tells me about local events that I’m too late to participate in. Maybe next year. Several stories detail female afflictions that I don’t even want to think about whether they apply to me or not. One article extols the virtues of a local business owner with whom I am personally familiar. She was awful to her female employees who were made to do the crummy work. She would groom clueless males for the better tipping upscale customers.  I could not work for her even as a favor to a mutual friend. An example of the quality of the local business woman? Nope.

Okay that’s unpleasant, time for a nap I decide.