I have a story that can’t wait until my habitual, weekly time, because what I want to tell you about needs to be fresh. Let’s say today is Tuesday. I wake up and do my usual routine, always to the letter. I get up, have a glass of water and fill the plastic kettle with water for coffee. I take my phone and put it on my cushion for my 25 minute Zen sit. I always listen, positive the kettle will never automatically shut off and I’ll have to get up, but it always does its thing. Upon completion, after some prayers and bows, I make my coffee and stroll over to the computer, going through news and emails.
By the time I finish with the computer, I tell Alexa ( If I say its name out loud, it will ask me what I want!) to shuffle my Pandora stations, usually having to tell it to be louder. I lay out my yoga mat and do my practice, the exact same one I’ve been doing for at least thirty years. I’ve had to throw in some abdominal crunches, an homage to my vanity. Then, I politely tell Alexa to shut up and bring my cellphone, with earbuds, out to the lanai, for around thirty minutes on the stationary bike, serenaded by my favorite tunes. I then head to the garage and hang upside down for maybe a minute.
It’s back into the house for blueberries, mixed with something called Ancient Grains, a claim I don’t believe for a minute.Then I pour a small amount of some white liquid in the bowl, best described as fake milk that goes bad after around two months in the fridge.
During this time, I also have had several glasses of water. I save the last one to help me swallow a slew of vitamins and herbs, capped off by a small amount of fermented coconut water, guaranteed to give my entire intestinal tract a free pass for life.
Then, it’s off the bathroom for beard trimming, tooth flossing and assorted ablutions. After drying from the shower and adjusting my hair, it’s time to grab a brewery shirt and jeans , hanging on the bathroom door. I get my stuff together for the day and then come back into the bathroom for my shoes. The pair I wanted were missing. In my uncomplicated world, nothing goes missing, ever!
You have to understand I live a purposely simple existence, partially because I confuse easily. A missing pair of shoes is a serious crisis, because it means I misplaced them and shit like that just doesn’t happen. I looked everywhere for them, which is not complicated, because it is hard for me to hide anything in my space.
I was positive I wore them the night before, when I drove to Kilauea to visit Laura. Finally, where at a point in this story, which reveals why this matters so much to me. I know I have written about my age and probably too much, but you’d also have to be my age to truly understand. One of the things that can happen to you as you get older is that you worry about your mind, in terms of losing it. You know, if I have forgotten what movie I watched the night before, primarily because it sucked, it still concerns me.
The older you get, the more you look for signs of possible mental degeneration and anyone who disagrees is simply full of shit. For those of you, who are younger, there is no hurry to get here, believe me. When these episodes happen, logic goes out the window and hints of panic slip over the sill into the room of your mind.
I knew exactly where I left my shoes on Laura’s lanai, when I got there. I had very clear memories of the drive home, keeping track of time and even stopping for a bag of too, salty cashews at the 7/11 in Lihue. I can’t imagine I drove home barefoot, because it made no sense. The scary thing that inserts itself into my excuse for consciousness is that I could actually believe I left without my shoes and somehow didn’t remember being barefoot.
Following the shoe inventory crisis, I left phone messages with Laura the next morning, because I actually believed it was possible I left without my shoes. Let me tell you, no matter how drunk or stoned I have been, ever in my life, I have never found myself barefoot, but this aging business puts you into some scary territory.
I finally got to speak with Laura after several attempts to try and get in touch, getting increasingly agitated with the passage of time. I was terrified I had actually forgotten my shoes. Finally, we spoke and my shoes were no where to be found on her lanai. Thank God, I didn’t drive home barefoot and I swear it was an incredible relief. I know you are probably thinking, “This guy has some very loose screws.”
Let me tell you, I live for my mind, my best friend. Dementia and Alzheimer’s are evil twins, hell bent on destroying your relationship with yourself and everyone and everything you hold dear. I want to spend the rest of my years having my shit together and I can’t imagine becoming a stranger to myself.
This is not the first time I have lost or misplaced anything, believe me. For many of you, it is more funny than anything else. Well, I panicked and lost my footing. After a sufficient amount of time had passed, some stability returned and I started to think, with my mind, often taking a vacation in the midst of the shit storm. Sure, I was very relieved I didn’t come home barefoot, which would have been a serious lapse, possibly requiring a medical intervention, God help me. However, there was still the mystery of the missing shoes.
Finally, when I calmed down and my mind could make its presence felt, I started thinking about the night before and what transpired. Well, when I got home yesterday, before riding up north, I had to go into my landlord’s house, because the internet was out. Usually, the remedy for this is simply restarting the router. Before going into their house, I left my shoes on their porch. I was in a hurry to leave and my shoes stayed where I’d left them. When I’m not working or riding the bike, I always wear slippahs, which is what I wore to Laura’s. I never would have worn my shoes in the first place, but this special kind of panic forgets the tried and true routines of time over time.
When I got home from the day of torture, I went straight to my neighbor’s steps and there were my shoes, just where I left them. Right at that moment, I decided this was a story I wanted to share with you, because it helps to define the terrible vulnerability of people like me. I am always looking for the words to explain what my numbers mean. Anybody my age that isn’t worrying about their mind is full of shit.
Finding my damn shoes where I left them is like the feeling a bull rider has when he/she runs out the clock, without getting thrown to the ground. I got it right this time! What I did was normal for me and not some aberrational behavior of a waning mind. I just want you to understand this is the kind of stuff that can happen to you as you get older and it is different from anything you’ve experienced.