APRIL 2007: “Omphaloskepsis at 62!”
(NOTE: Newcomers, who'd like to get an idea of what this site is all about, would be well-advised to click on "2005 Pages" and read that introduction. Enjoy!)
Yes, it's true, this over-fed, under-bred, sleeping gnome is sixty-two—I'm receiving the Social Security benefits to prove it! Funny thing is, I don't feel a day over fifty-nine. (If you'd rather skip straight to the pictures, click HERE!)
One fact is for certain, however, my navel is larger. How do I know, you ask? I know because it takes longer to gaze at everything in it. I never knew it could hold so much, just as I never knew there was a word for contemplating it. At least not until I discovered that, besides being a master-of-disaster, I'm also a skipper of omphaloskepsis, the fine art of navel gazing—as I age so does my skill.
And so it is that we all become the older generation, and as we do we also realize that our parents and elders didn't really know any more than we did. They were just older, so we imparted some hoped-for sagacity upon them. But, I'm not aware of any mantle of wisdom thrown over my shoulders or any special instructions revealed just because I reached retirement age. I should point out, however, that I actually "retired" years ago; the government is just catching up...maybe there is some wisdom in that. Also, I'm probably not the best subject on which to deny or confirm these observations—what was that line: stupid is as stupid does? At any rate, sitting down here in Latin American indolence, I have the time, if nothing else, to noodle these things out, to gaze to my heart's content, and to take long, ignorant naps. Never let it be said that I don't know how to do retirement.
If not wisdom, there are some things that come with age. Allow me to expound. Hair grows in the most inappropriate places, yet stops growing where you expect it. That's a worldwide adage—heck, I've threatened to weave my dingleberry clusters into dreadlocks. Let's see, your feet grow farther and farther away, making the trimming of toe nails and the donning of socks more and more difficult. Another established fact. Photographs depict an increasingly scary image. Nothing new there. The number of people calling you sir seems to grow exponentially, although I guess that's better than "you crazy old fart." And there's a surprisingly rich cornucopia of secreted fluids and solids exuding from the nethermost regions of your body and orifices. By the way, what the hell is a skin tag, and when and where did they all come from!?!?
Moving on: life here at Casa Ingaso, despite my troubling manifestations, continues unfettered. Bobbo is the "poster child" for unfetteredness, if that's a word. All the animals, as a matter of fact, have made themselves right at home here. Plants and trees, as well, grow at warp speed (remember my prediction of five-years before the trees meet in the middle of the covered promenade or allee? Well, it's beginning to look like I'll be off by four-years!). Unfortunately, like the flora, my waist grows at an alarming rate, too (TC has used her seamstress abilities on numerous occasions), and my beard, nose and ear hair, along with my nails grow faster than I care to trim them (TC's threatening to hire a full-time gardener just to prune me). But, not to worry, I usually clean up for company...(Howard Hughes wasn't eccentric, he was lazy.)
On the other hand, TC cruises along, happy with her gardens, her friends, her plant-buying forays, her clinics, her classes, her home, and life in general. You know what, it's even possible she's happy with me...omphaloskepsis will reveal the truth. And she's happy playing Scrabble.
Now, before you cast her, willy-nilly, into my pit of dotage, know that she's loved the game since long before she met me; it's not a recent symptom of accumulating years. I'll tell you, there's nothing quite like the twinkle in her eye when she comes up with some clever usage of tiles. As for myself, the thing I like the most about Scrabble is you can't hurt yourself...okay, I guess I could choke on a tile, or suffer an aneurysm trying to think of a word, but in general you don't hear of many Scrabble injuries; always a plus where I'm concerned. So, a couple of games a day keeps senility away...
Well, that's enough of that. If you click on the photo of TC, it will take you to the latest photographs depicting life at Casa Ingaso. Enjoy!
"Hasta luego, Amigos!"
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