I’m in my mid-40’s. I’m reasonably healthy and mobile.
Despite this, I’m ready for assisted living. Here’s why.
It’s spring time. That means many different things to people.
For me, Spring means mowing the lawn. I hate mowing the lawn. My lawn is a mixture of brown and green. Short of G-d causing it to rain for 40 straight days and nights, my lawn will remain brown and green. Probably not worth the consequences.
The paint on the foundation of my house is chipping. It needs to be scraped off and repainted. Guess who’s going to do that? There goes a couple of Sundays. Who hoo – can’t wait.
And then there’s the assisted living facilities. Have you ever seen the brochures for those places? The lawns are the greenest of greens and makes you thank G-d, the world is in technicolor.
Then, there’s the foundation. Who notices the foundation on such a place? Not me. We’re good.
So assisted living will assist me with maintenance. Love it! Continue reading
I stood on the front steps of Baldi Middle School in Northeast Philadelphia. My mother was in a rush, “We have to get to the appointment.”
But I wasn’t in the mood to rush. After all, it was 1:30, the middle of the day, and I was outside. This was the height of freedom.
I took a moment and glanced up at the sun which shone brightly and was happy to feel the light breeze. I took a deep breath and watched as the cars raced down Verree Road. Many would have noticed nothing unusual about this Spring Tuesday.
Yet, I was amazed at the goings ons.
The freedom to see what the world is like at 1:30 – what could be better?
“Why don’t you smile?” The woman in the supermarket bent down in my eight-year old face. She was smiling broadly as if I needed to be shown what a smile was. I was standing next to my mother flipping through baseball cards when subjected to this interruption. Who are you, and why are you bothering me?
This was the story of my childhood. I regularly had people tell me to smile more, ask me why I don’t smile, and tell me jokes to get me to smile. I occasionally gave a fake smile to shut them up. I would have rather told them to leave me the hell alone.
The more people would ask me to smile, the angrier I became. There wasn’t some deep dark secret – I ate regularly, my parents didn’t beat me, and I had friends – so what could I answer? Would they want to know that this was my natural facial expression? My serious look wasn’t a conscious thing. I was born that way. Is that a problem? Am I hideous? Go bother your own child.
— Continue reading
It was the 8th inning of a 6th inning game. Who knew Little League softball had extra innings?
One boy (Let’s call him Aaron) had sat on the bench for multiple innings. Aaron was in the 2nd grade or the youngest in the band (2nd-4th grade) and a weak player. He was anxious when the ball came to him and rarely caught it. He had a weak arm.
Another boy (let’s call him David) was the last person left who had yet to sit on the bench. David was in 4th grade and was very good for his age. A ball hit to him was as sure as an out can be for the first rung of Little League.
In that 8th inning, as the Little League Coach, I had a decision to make: Who to sit? What was important – putting the team in the best position to win or making sure everyone had a chance. I chose the latter.
Inevitably, Aaron was involved in a defensive play. He made an error, and the other team scored. We were unable to score in our inning, and our team lost.