One with the Sun

I’m of the opinion that if you don’t see the sun rise over the ocean at least once in your life, you can’t get into heaven. Don't risk taking the chance that St. Peter will send you back for a field trip. It might not be on your bucket list, but it deserves a place on your sand pail and shovel agenda.

The Captain says today’s sunset is tomorrow’s sunrise, just earlier, so there’s no need to launch yourself out of bed when dew is forming on the newspaper just to see one. If you’re upset about the direction look at it in a mirror.

Our priorities are different. His are wrong.

Vacationing at the beach, I undertook to secure him a spot on the scenic side of the Pearly Gates when he finally goes to the big place computer techs go when they die, and although I’m uncomfortable mentioning Gates and computer technology in the same breath for fear of a licensing agreement infringement, I don’t mean a big room with a high speed Internet connection and a billion users who know how to synch their own Blackberry.

It was 7:00 a.m. The sunlight streamed in the window like it was on a video loop. The Captain’s face was one with the pillow and held the relaxed, peaceful air of a summer breeze in a clover-filled meadow.

Time to get up.

But how to facilitate the waking process without also calling the enemy to battle? He doesn't so much get out of bed as he does launch a ground assault on the day. After the last unpleasantness, I decided not to use the car alarm ploy again. The resulting excitement cost me the chance to see the sun at all that day.

I sat in bed, resting against the wicker headboard, celebrity magazine in hand. I try to improve my mind, even when my body is on vacation. You can’t fight too hard in the fashion battle. Flipping pages like they were fan blades, I glanced over at the victim. I’ve patented a look that will freeze jalepeno peppers, but out of love I set my eyes to stun.

No response.

I cleared my throat meaningfully.

No response.

I repositioned myself repeatedly due to an uncomfortable wrinkle in the linens.

No response.

Inspired by the sheets, I succumbed to a previously undiscovered allergic reaction to thread count.

With a snort, he turned to face the other wall.

Somewhere on another street, possibly in another town, an unknown hand flipped a switch on a small countertop appliance, and a dark beverage began a slow drip into a pyrex pot. Nobody gives a wake up call like Mr. Coffee. If they could train Captain Caffeine to sniff out bombs like he can track down freshly brewed coffee, he would always have a job as an airport monitor.

He sat up, sniffing the air like Smokey the Bear on the trail of three matchbook packing Boy Scouts.

I padded to the kitchen and returned bearing a cup filled with the drink that never sleeps
.
He burst from the bedclothes like Superman in toddler-sized tights. “So, wanna go see the sunrise?”

“Sure, but you’d better gas up the car.”

“Why?”

“Because we’d have to travel three time zones toward the west to get a glimpse.”

He took a long drink from his mug. Some women go their whole lives without the type of caress that the Mickey Mouse on that cup was getting. Captain Serenity leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“That’s okay. We’ll catch the one tonight. Got a mirror?”

He took a draw of coffee that made Mickey’s ears stretch, and shot a boyish smile at me from across the room.

Just my luck. I have a plan to get to heaven and he finds a secret door to Paradise right here on Earth.

Dream Big But Don't Bend Over

I posted a sign above my closet that reads: “Caution: Consult your doctor before any change of clothing.”

These days my favorite aerobic activity is standing up to put on my pants. Seems like the older I get, the faster I do that little hokey pokey dance of trying to stuff my foot into the leg hole while hopping in circles like a flamingo on a hot sidewalk. If both feet accidentally go in the same side, I’ll spend the entire day shuffling around like the third man in a chain gang before I’ll attempt the Herculean task of redirecting the errant leg. It’s just not worth the risk to my health insurance.

My idea of Xtreme Sports is putting on socks. In the old days pantyhose installation was the troublemaker, but the fashion gods took stock of the nation’s legs and decided it was a nifty idea for a nation of people whose lower limbs resemble the untamed face of Everest to forego hosiery. Free of the pantyhose peril among us, I’ve resorted to socks, which are not in any way attached to each other and which require someone with the dexterity of Jack LaLanne to put them on.

Scientific studies of adults over 50 in my house who are opposed to stretching or bending for reasons of health or other forms of neglect, show that people my age can suffer acid indigestion or premature death from this sort of sudden exercise onset. Last Tuesday I tried to put on a sports bra and almost cornrowed my hair. I did manage to perform an emergency facelift. My eyebrows are still missing, but the birthmark previously on my temple is now a butterfly tattoo at the base of my spine.

Not long ago I saw an advertisement for a scarf that could be tied in different ways to make 19 different outfits. Thinking I couldn’t go wrong with a one-piece wardrobe, I dug out the piece of plastic that lets me live life on borrowed dimes and bought one. Before I got it out of the package it worked itself into a sort of fabric Rubik’s cube. I wedged it over my head and squeezed my arms through. These days I have to flex my left shoulder to lift my right leg. I need two assistants and an Eagle Scout with a Swiss Army knife just to walk up the stairs to my front porch. Every time I try to take a step, the back hem shoots up my back like Levelor blinds.

I thought about trying yoga to improve my flexibility. I popped in an exercise video, but by the time I dropped into the downward dog position, I required the assistance of a veterinarian. I found it rather humiliating to wear the satellite dish collar, but it worked wonders to keep me from biting my stitches.

Then yesterday while surmising out how to safely remove a panty girdle without friction burns that took care of unwanted hair better than a series of laser treatments, I thought back to the popular movie, The Bucket List. Suddenly I realized that if I were to name the one thing I wanted to accomplish with my life before that final stroll through the Pearly Gates, it would be to dress myself without the need for a pictorial directory of the human anatomy, an emergency responder team, or the jaws of life on standby.

My half century of life has taught me an important lesson. When you dream, dream big. But don't bend over.