Some of you are going to tear your hair out trying to find the prior editions because they aren’t marked in an orderly fashion so you could just click here or here.
If I told you I am listening to one of my favorite songs again and share a couple of lyrics you might catch on to where this is going or you might not because Joshua has broken free of his shackles and there is no telling where we’ll end up.
“Well, big wheels roll through fields where sunlight streams
Oh, meet me in a land of hope and dreams”
Been cruising through the archives of previously written posts and pieces and am laughing at how ridiculous life is.
+++++
There are relatively few good ways to tell most people that you beat up Santa Claus.
Most of them start with he was drunk, aggressive and getting too friendly with my wife/kids but those are hard to come by.
My story isn’t quite like that. The jolly old man wasn’t making eyes at my woman or doing bad things to my kids so I don’t have any reasons other than I just don’t like him.
Something about that guy just chaps my hide. Maybe it is because as the Jewish kid I know he automatically puts me on the naughty list.
Once upon a midnight dreary when I found myself in a state between weak and weary I started thinking about how unfair it was not to be gifted with whatever sort of gifts are given to the other team.
Since I am a peace loving fellow I figured the best way to go about this was to figure out who Mr. Claus reports to. Once I had that information it would be easy to encourage him to share some loot with me.
When I began my research I discovered the 1-800-Ask a Gentile hotline. I dialed the fine folks over there and much to my chagrin learned it didn’t work. Every time I called I got one of those error messages about the line not being in service.Since my one track mind isn’t easily dissuaded I called the Vatican and asked to be connected with the pope.
Apparently he isn’t available to take calls nor is he willing to return them, especially when they are of a frivolous or silly nature. I don’t know about you, but a guy who wears a funny pointed hat shouldn’t chew on the butts of other people who enjoy silly.
Anyhoo, time passes and I am stumped. Mrs. Hackleshmackle, the librarian from my high school called me an idiot and said she don’t have to put up with my nonsense no more.
There ain’t no one at the Library of Congress who will answer my question nor is there anyone at the Smithsonian. But like I said, I am determined so I figure I’ll go to the local mall and ask the guy who is playing Santa Claus if he can help me out.
So I head on over to the Short Hills Mall and find myself talking to an elf who has a real Jersey attitude. I say, Snooky, I got no time to deal with an elf who smells like she doused herself with a combination of kerosene and Chanel Number Smellslikecrap. Just tell the fat guy I need to talk.
I don’t even want to tell you what sort of response I got, but it was pretty vulgar. Fortunately Santa heard us talking and he waddled over and what he said shocked me.
That fat old man used a series of four letter words in a fashion that cannot be described as friendly or jolly.
Well, no one gets a free poke at me so I told Santa that if he didn’t apologize I was going to kick his ass.
Jersey Santa didn’t take too kindly to that so he vaulted over the candy cane fence and came straight for me.
Santa, I ain’t one of your elves. The sarge told me he loved me because I am a hard charger with head full of rocks. Step back or risk having your bag of coal shoved so far up your ass a match and a burp will start a fire.
Needless to say Jersey Santa didn’t take my advice but he did take five fingers in the mouth, a boot to the ass and a hard right to the gut.
Had there been a window he probably would have been defenestrated, but sadly luck was not on my side.
I’d like to say I got through the moment unscathed and unharmed but that wouldn’t be true.
Two of Santa’s elves jumped me from behind. One of them bit my shoulder and the other grabbed a hold of the kind of package that requires more TLC than they gave it.
And Santa, well he surprised me with a hook shot that almost knocked me on my ass. I have to give him credit for that one, it was almost as good as he got.
Twenty-five years later I still don’t get anything on Christmas nor have I ever figured out who Santa’s boss is. But I got some good memories and I didn’t get arrested, so I guess I got that going for me.
+++++
Yesterday I was reminded of the difference of being able to throw iron around the gym and the muscle required for real life. You know the muscle you need to load a truck and then later unload the truck so you can carry that crap up the stairs.
It turns out I might not be almost middle aged, I might actually be in the middle because I huffed and puffed my way through the day in a way that was humbling.
And because my ego refused to allow me to accept that I am not 30 I muscled 80 pounds of unassembled dresser up those stairs.
Somewhere 30-year-old Josh rose from the depths and slapped 55 year-old Josh at least 55 times and asked why he let us age this way.
For a couple of minutes 30 year-old Josh had his way but then 55 year-old Josh caught his breath the throat punched the younger guy.
“Doesn’t matter if you could put that unit over your shoulder and carry it up the stairs if you can’t breathe now does it.”
The old guy cackled, “we aren’t who we once were physically but doesn’t mean we didn’t learn a few tricks along the way.”
We heard the young man mumble something in response and then we kicked him in the ribs because we remembered how fast we used to recover.
This might be the last time I move anyone and serve as the primary source of labor for the heavy lifting. Ideally nothing changes and there is two years before it is time to worry about this one again.
Epilogue
When I hit the gym around 5 PM this afternoon I did so thinking about whether I could construct a body that would do a better job of handling the moving that took place yesterday.
I was certain there are some immediate steps I could take that would make everything significantly easier but I couldn’t figure out if there was a way to fix the mileage that sits upon these shoulders.
If I were a car I could take numerous steps like rebuilding the engine and replacing the suspension. I could do things that would restore youth but those options aren’t as easily applied here.
Thought some more about the moving process and the art of building furniture. Hoped my daughter caught some of what I was saying and wondered if she recognized the teaching moments I tried to insert.
There were times I sat and watched even though I could have sped things along because there is value in learning by doing. Value in knowing your hands built something so that you can have faith in your capabilities.
It is strange to see the second half coming and a bit surreal to think that maybe it has already started.
Leave a Reply