Heat Wave

I am beginning to realize why there is so much social unrest in hot climates. The heat and humidity gnaws at your equanimity. After a few days of unremitting 90 degree temperatures during the days and nights of sleep depriving discomfort, the usual insulating layer of patience and understanding is worn away, exposing a raw irritated nub of anger which spews out in all directions. This is why places like Haiti and Iran, Florida and Mexico are dysfunctional - especially in the summer.

I have taken to getting up before 6am and getting all my activities in while the air is still relatively cool. Then like an ant, at mid-day, I withdraw to the coolest corners of the nest to nap or read. I don't write much anymore. In fact if it was not for updates to this blog, my writing output would be nil.

I guess I have given up the fantasy that some day my extraordiary talents would be discovered by some rich editorial syndicate and that I would become the next Andy Rooney or Dave Barry. No, this is not to be. And I am ok with that. Fame is a sharp two-edged sword. I had enough celebrity back in the 90's when I was writing small vignettes for the local newspaper on a regular basis as a "Guest Columnist". People seemed to like my light humorous pieces lampooning the foibles of my fellow citizens. People would stop me in the supermarket to express agreement with a pithy point I had made. They would print almost anything I submitted, virtually un-edited. But when I suggested that I would be more prolific if I was getting Paid, they were decidedly uninterested in such an arrangement. I eventually decided to stop writing for free and went back to work as a systems analyst - which no one would expect you to do and not get charged for your time.

I am less than a week away from my 63rd birthday. ( Please, no presents - I already have pretty much everything I want or need that costs less than $10,000. ) I only mention it because my age has a lot to do with the attenuation of my writing ambitions these days.

My father died when he was age 65. None of his four brothers made it to their 66th year either. So, you can imagine that I have lived most of my life, thinking that men in my family die at around age 65 - except for the ones who got hanged for stealing horses.

Now that I am approaching that age, I am trying hard to revise my fatalistic thinking. Several males of my generation (older cousins) have successfully reached the 70 year mark in relatively good health. ( although full disclosure requires that I mention that cousin Barry suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack at 65 a few years ago.)

All my life, I have had a feeling that I was charmed in some way. You know, I was meant for something big and important. Call it ego or hubris, you are probably right. The point is that I have passed a lot of time (and Gas!) waiting for something to happen. Not making things happen. I always thought that if there was a Creator then he probably had some special purpose for me. Now, after six decades, I have concluded that if there is a Creator then he must like assholes, because he sure made a lot of them.
My goals for the rest of this life is not to be included in that count.