Satyrdaz Wandering Thoughts

Eating oatmeal remains a little messy and problematic. It almost slipped off the spoon and down my chin.

Wait, I should set it up right: I’m talking about reverse days. That clarifies it, doesn’t it?

Maybe if I go further back, this will begin making sense.

I’m right-handed. Years ago, I decided that I would be right-handed on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I’d be left-handed on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Sunday was dealer’s choice.

I began easy and worked my way into more difficult efforts. Along the way, I grew deeper appreciation for what left-handers must suffer in order to cope with our right-hand biases. My house feels specifically set up for a right-hand user. I never thought about that when I bought it; I accepted it as ‘normal’. I realized that many things can be changed to accommodate a left-hander, matters like how the faucets are oriented, and the way the dryer and refrigerator doors open.

After my practice with reverse days, I can only imagine how difficult daily life must be for natural left-handers. Learning to drive must require a Herculean effort.

Beyond those, I’ve become fascinated with how my right and left hands have negotiated into who does what. Holding and eating a banana, for example. I found that I hold my banana in my left hand so I can peel it in my right. Yet, I continue to hold it in my left hand while I eat it.

The most daunting task for reverse days: definitely shaving. I can shave my face okay with my left hand. But my left hand hasn’t earned my trust for trimming my mustache and beard. An electric razor is used for that task. Using it to shape things requires careful movement and concentration. I like it just so, you know. Although I’ve picked up my razor with my left and braced myself to do it and yet…wincing, returned it to my right. Yes, I am a chicken.

I’m sure I’ll someday summon the courage to permit the left hand to give the electric razor a go. Until then, the left hand won’t know what the right hand is doing.

Then it’ll learn just how hard it is being right.

Mundaz Wandering Thoughts

I park the car and head up the street towards the coffee house. As it happens on other days, four more people are making the same trek. We all share an urgency and focus to our movement. I think again, we’re like ants going toward a piece of food, and amuse myself again, thinking, coffee ants. I can almost picture the others with waving antennae…

Coffee ants. Coffants.

Brewants?

Espressants?

Mundaz Wandering Thoughts

My wife and I had a minor disagreement the other day.

I had surgery to repair a ruptured tendon last year, in October, 2024. I’ve had pain of various kinds since then. One source of pain was along toes three to five, which was often stiff with burning pain. I’d mentioned it to my surgeon, as it began during my convalescence from surgery. He said that it sounds like a nerve was damaged. I felt the same. Although I’m not a medical expert or doctor, etc., I broke and dislocated a wrist in my late twenties. Pins casts immobilized that wrist and arm. I suffered from a burning, painful sensation along the pin sites after they were removed. My doc back then told me it was probably nerve damage. It did go away after about twenty years. This foot pain felt just like that pain.

While walking the other day, I felt a sudden sharp and painful snap in my foot where the toe pain resides. After gasping and slowing for a second, I resumed walking. Lo, that foot pain was gone. It hasn’t come back.

I was so elated. I went home and told my wife. She responded, “Why is this the first that I’m hearing about this?”

One, it wasn’t the first she was hearing about it. She’d forgotten me mentioning it, but I spoke about in early January of this year. I don’t blame her for forgetting it. We don’t remember everything we’re told.

Two was a broader philosophical position. Basically, I don’t tell her about every pain I endure. I’m aging, and have pains from time to time. Feet, ankle, hips, neck, shoulder, back, abdomen, eyes, etc. Those pains often go away. Their duration can last anywhere from a few hours to a week. Sometimes they limit movement, and more rarely limit my activities. My point is, pain comes and goes. I prefer to not complain. And then means, to me, not mentioning.

And there’s a little history in that. Number one was Mom. Mom as a mother often told us to stop crying, stop whining, stop complaining. She wanted us to be happy children. If we couldn’t be happy, she wanted us to be quiet.

Then there’s history with my wife about this. Long ago, when I was twenty, I was severely sick for several days. We didn’t see doctors back then for things like that. Basically vomiting, not eating, listless, sweating a lot, lot of pain. That pain resulted in some moaning and groaning.

Yeah, I got over it and lived. But about a year later, my wife was speaking to others and talked about what a baby I was when I was sick and hurt. That insulted and angered me. I told her so when we were alone. It since became a theme for her to talk about how often men complain about being sick or hurt when women are so much hardier, and more willing to endure. I finally mentioned to my wife that I disliked this reductivism about men and pain. She’s done it off and on since, and once, after seeing me give her a look when she made such a statement, apologized and claimed that she wasn’t including me. Since then, she’s slowly drifted out of the habit.

But this is how we evolve. We have our basic attitudes and tendencies, and then we react to our environment. Part of that is how we react to what we hear. What is said about us, especially by those we love, admire, and trust. Maybe I’m being thin-skinned, but words matter. Part of my problem, too, is that I seem to have a very strong memory. I don’t easily forget or forgive.

I guess that’s my bottom line.

Wenzda’s Wandering Thoughts

We slipped out of the house into the cool morning with a ladder and a few pint containers. Our objective is unchanged since 2007, our first spring and summer in this house: cherries!

Our neighbor has a cherry tree. At their insistence, the yield from any branch on our side of the fence belongs to us. Most years, the cherries are ready around July 1st. But blessed with the right weather, the neighbors picked their side earlier this week. We did our picking today. Cool and pleasant air, warming sunshine, a quiet neighborhood, and sweet, fresh, dark red cherries.

It was a morning to savor. Cherry scone, anyone?

Routines

The keys go in this drawer so that they could always be found

(alongside his Fitbit, wallet, and pens),

the shopping bags were stored in these cubbies so all knew where they were

(it was automatic to reach for them when walking out the door),

the sunglasses and reading glasses were set where they were always expected to be

(so that exasperating searches could be avoided),

and the refrigerator and pantry were kept ordered, to minimize searching,

processes meant to reduce the chances of forgetting and losing anything.

It mostly worked.

 

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