Aging is the easiest thing to do and also the hardest thing to do. Much like marriage. Seems sometimes the hardest part of getting old is finding the joy in the experience.
The joy in the experience. And the beer shits. Which somehow bumped right up against being a metaphor of his entire existence. Beer shits. That’s just harsh, man, I’m tellin’ you.
A man of many vices struggles and battles and loses and rebounds and grows old. He emerges like escaping from a maze of hard sharp pointy objects and, lo and behold, what is this, he has only like one or two vices if you don’t count too many hours of televised bicycle races. He likes to drink beer. That’s it. Beer.
Beer. You wouldn’t think that was asking too much. But, noooooooooooo, IPA-breath. Beer shits.
And gardening. The old man continued to work on the butterfly garden, as the young redhead called it. He thought of that part of the property as a nest of serpents. Even had a vision. Looked down into the red bark dust and saw a significant snake looked like a boa constrictor. That’s the thing about living here. Could’ve been a boa constrictor.
Snake bit. Next day, the old man could barely move, couldn’t bend without pain. Been here before many, many, too many times. His lower back felt like a piece of cardboard been bent back and forth, back and forth, until it was creased. The crease hurt like hell.
Apparently and this is no surprise the old man’s back rebelled, tossed too many cubic feet of red termite-proof bark dust around and about. Too old to garden safely.
Welcome To Florida signs should say Watch Your Step.
Which is always good advice.
Ever play dodge-ball? Lord, how I loved that game. Hitting people and not hurting them. Not that you can see.