It occurred to me the other day that you are young for a very, very long time and then - SWISSSSSHHHH - all of a sudden - you aren't. It happens just like that, just that fast. It's like getting bashed in the head by the Old Age Fairy with a baseball bat. BAM, BAM, BAM.
That is when you notice nothing works right anymore, everything aches and you realize you have been tired since you turned fifty. Richie reminds me of how old I am whenever he helps me from a chair or whenever I drop something for no reason or whenever I walk into a room with that customary blank stare on my face, forgetting what I came into the room for.
Or is it - for that which I came into the room. I hate grammar.
It happens to him also occasionally, for which I thank the Lord God Almighty. His trials began in earnest with our adoption of Darcy the Wonder Dog, or Darcylicious or Darcy Elizabeth or The Damn Dog Peed Again. She depends a great deal upon our continued poor eyesight in conjunction with our less than stunning reflexes, and with good reason.
We are old. She is young.
Case in point:
Richie came in screaming that the dog had stolen his screwdriver. Rich was repairing the lawnmower (he has been repairing the lawnmower for about eight months now) and as he explained it he just put the screwdriver down for a second and it was gone. Shortly afterward Darcy flashed by, screwdriver in mouth, laughter on face. to add insult to injury she did a little victory dance in front of him - like a Greenbay Packer in the end zone. He threw his work gloves down in a fit of peak.
They too disappeared shortly thereafter.
It was very early morning; we had searched the grass blade by blade the day before and found nothing. Richie couldn't run the riding mower until we found that screwdriver because the damn blades would find it way before we did and it would damage the machine. There was only one thing to do - we needed to catch her in the act. She was wily and cute, we were old and cheap. I am not about to buy another riding mower.
We hid behind the bushes, our backs to the side of the house. Stealthily we leaned forward to observe what Darcy the Doppelganger was up to, and we saw - she was lying on her tummy in the grass and waiting for us to appear around the corner.
Beside herself with the joy of the game she grabbed the purloined screwdriver, clicked her heels (yes, dogs have heels) and was off like a shot...like a shot and a half...with Richie in hot pursuit. At this point the phone was ringing; and, besides, with Richie safely out of the house I could sneak in and snatch that last French Cruller. I went inside and left the Gang of Two to fight it out among themselves.
Richie came inside about an hour later,laughing.
"She pulled my shorts down," he said with a groan. "I had my hands full, trying to keep aloft the gloves and the screwdriver I had just tricked her into dropping, and she pulled my pants down. I couldn't move fast enough to catch them."
"Oh, you poor thing," I said, trying to appear as if I meant it. "I can't think of anything more...more...embarrassing."
"I can. Since I hadn't taken my shower yet I didn't have any underwear on. I had just slipped on my jogging shorts to go outside."
Outside the window Light Fingers Darcy was standing on her hind legs doing a hula, gloves at her feet and screwdriver in her mouth.
The week long Spook-a-licious Blog Hop is over. Finally. I am so tired.
The winner of a signed copy of
"Darcy and Fitzwilliam"