Category: Orphans

 It’s my 54th birthday. I started to take the day off. But that would be a cop-out. Who uses words like “cop-out” anymore? I mean besides me? Why not cop-in?

 For some reason 54 sounds old-er, as opposed to 53. Maybe that is because it is, but only slightly. If you were born at 11:59 p.m. on Oct. 27, 1955 and someone else was born at 12:01 a.m. on Oct. 28, 1955, that wouldn’t really be older by much. But if you were born 11:59 p.m. on October 27, 1955, and someone else was born at 12:01 a.m. on Jan. 1, 1956, that still would only be older by one numeral, even if you were a couple of months older.

 Ages seem incogitable sometimes while at other times they appear so insignificant.

 A 100-year-old man chases down a 15-year-old thug of a purse snatcher and beats the teen silly. That’s unbelieveable. A 45-year-old kicks a 54-yard field goal in a pro football game. A 28-year-old kicker misses a 20-yard kick in the same game. So what?

 Probably the most signficant aspect of age as far as I have experienced it is in terms of times past and the memories that lie therein. Those memories extend from remembering my family’s first TV set, to a seemingly endless parade of DBs (dead bodies) I wish I hadn’t seen, to watching the sun set out at sea to seeing the sun rise from sitting on top of my roof out on the farm.

 The most disagreeable part of my aging is pain, although it has been around as a constant companion now since my early 30s. You can kill the pain for awhile, but it always comes back somewhere else ready to strike again at other locations on your body.

 What age seems most of all to me is relative. It’s hard to put your finger on some aspects of age. Over the weekend my old high school friends were still talking about the insignifica of our lives 35 years ago and it all seemed as fresh as a daisy. I just remembered a little while ago that it was four years ago and not five that I went to Austin for the Texas Book Fair. It was my 50th birthday. Duh!

I don’t know if that relativity will fade away as more years come and go. I sure hope it doesn’t.

 Who will I be rooting for when the World Series opens tomorrow evening in the “House that Steinbrenner Built?”

 The answer is: the Houston Texans.

 That’s right I am talking  about the Houston NFL team that won its first back-to-back game in the franchise’s seven-year history with their triumph Sunday over the San Francisco 49ers. The Texans are no New Orleans. (I never thought I’d ever say any team is “no New Orleans.”) But if they keep things upright they might just have a playoff spot to advance in little baby steps as part of their toddler-esque existence.

 But what about the Series? Who cares.

 I suppose if you are a Phillies fan or Yankees fan you would care. But I am neither. Oh, I have had my days of Yankee worship, during the times of Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris. The Yankees have had some incredible talent in their history. As of late, most of that star power is courtesy of ginormous bucks. That’s nothing against Alex Rodriguez, who I saw play as a Ranger, or Rivera or Jeter.

 The Phillies have also had some fantastic cattle in the pen over the years as well: Carlton, Schmidt, Sandberg and Rose, the latter in between stints with the Reds and his bookie.

 Had the California, Anaheim, Los Angeles Angels been able to pull off the AL crown I might be watching the series starting tomorrow. But the possibility of the Yankees winning their 27th world championship just seems a bit too much, no matter how great their wealthy team may be.

 I wish as well I could say that I am too excited to watch the series due to the Astros hiring new manager, Red Sox bench coach Brad Mills, today. But I don’t know who he is or much about him other than he played a few seasons for the Expos and had the dubious distinction of being Nolan Ryan’s 3,509th strikeout victim, thus making Ryan in 1983 the all-time K leader in the major leagues.

 But Mills don’t field and Mills don’t hit. So we faithful who keep getting our hopes dashed like Charlie Brown and his elusive football kick will just have to wait and see how goes the ‘Stros. In the meantime, we have the Texans. Will they break our hearts as well?

 Not as long as Bud Adams stays the hell away.

 It was nice to have a week off from work and the everyday routine. I managed to travel to Tennessee, Missouri and Arkansas last week although the latter was actually the spot in which I spent time. I flew into Memphis and crossed into Missouri a week ago Sunday while my friend searched for a gas station to her liking.

 Getting out of town, away from work, seeing one of my best friends, flying somewhere and looking at the world from miles above all  are worthwhile pursuits though not all are always restful. Returning to work from vacation  likewise isn’t all that as well, especially when a hectic week stares back at you.

 The work week isn’t so hectic. It’s the getting up however early tomorrow to catch the shuttle by 5:30-6 a.m. from the local VA clinic to the Houston VA hospital. Yes, I could drive, but I don’t like to deal with morning traffic when I don’t have to do so. I am going to the DeBakey hospital for an electromyogram, a.k.a. an EMG. That is a test that “measures the electrical activity of muscles at rest and during contraction. Nerve conduction studies measure how well and how fast the nerves can send electrical signals,” according to WebMD. EMGs and nerve conduction studies are used for testing various conditions including carpal tunnel syndrome, neuromuscular diseases, herniated discs and neuropathies. In my case, it is the latter.

 For the past six months my feet have felt at times as if my toes were growing out of my shoes. Plus, I get numb toes or toes that ache to the lightest of touch or just a throbbing pain as if someone was nailing my feet to the floor. Hopefully, the VA people will find out what is causing this through their studies. I already take Lyrica, an anti-epileptic drug that is also used for conditions such as neuropathies and fibromyalgia. I have had mixed success with the drugs so far.

 To cap off an otherwise hectic week, I plan on attending a 35-year high school reunion this weekend. The reunion or reunions, actually, are not one solid event it seems but one get together followed by another. It’s no official, organized thing, which quite possibly will make it more fun than dread.

  So here I am back, not quite ready to take on the evil world of the ultra-ultra-ultra conservatives or to take the left-left-left wing to task nor am I ready to dive into what the president I voted for is doing. But as I stated above, that doesn’t mean I am just sitting on my arse and playing that old familiar tune.

 I am back and as far as the week ahead and how it goes, we shall see what we shall see.