Urination

What Difference Does It Make?

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Forget the “it” in the title. We already rode that dead horse. And forget the “that” in that sentence. Why are pronouns and miscellaneous “determiners” so necessary and confusing? Ask Ai about them both so we can move on to another subject.

Memory, and its (again?) attendant issues, are on the mind, today.

It is easy to think of things to essay about. (Yes, essay can be used as a verb. Ask your own Emma.) Life itself can be written about ad nauseum, and an inquisitive mind and active fingers can even exhaustively explicate dust particles.

(Short break for Emma’s Ai dissertation on Dust.)

The problem is most Great Ideas come at inconvenient times. No, not the bathroom, but when zooming up Route 365 To Turning Stone at highway speeds whose numerical value is determined by a possible law enforcement presence. Or trying to get to sleep. Imagine being tired and a “great idea for an essay or story” pops into your head. Do you get up? Do you wait for the next pee break? Do you stay completely still and hope sleep comes immediately?

I used to get up but after a “certain age” getting back to sleep became a bigger problem than forgetting a Great Idea, especially with the Urination Schedule of The Senior Male already causing sleep interruptions. Great Ideas are a dime a dozen, or $2.25 per the US Bureau of Labor Statistics for April 2026. No. I will not research a true local and current price. It might not be good news. And it’s best to lay (lie?) still and wait.

Where were we? Great Ideas and how to manage them. Many times I’ve solved the world’s problems while watching for early morning, road-crossing deer during the flight up Route 365 at excessive and probably unsafe speeds. There is no way to let go the wheel and take notes or drive one-handed while glancing back and forth from phone to windshield. Understandably for a senior, by the time I land in the parking garage 5 minutes later, The Great Idea is gone, lost in the swirling mists of history much like my ancient football career, the facts–if not lost–not to be relied upon if recovered.** Yes, I often channel Al Bundy.

If I’d had typed the **footnote here, I’d be done by now, with my eventual point only partly constructed:  if you want to remember something you have to…um…

Okay. We’ll head in another direction and act like the preceding never happened.

There is a lot to regret, miss, and moan about as things in our lives change and flex and swivel and slide down the backside of life.

But there are also interesting, beautiful, amazing, startling, and informative things, too, if we can remember to spend less time moaning about getting older.***

When watching documentaries (like the 8 hour one on China) you have to wonder if the people living in The Ming Dynasty had any time to enjoy life before millions of them died hundreds of years ago. Did they have any Great Ideas? If you know about ancient warfare, how did the losers of wars deal with the loss and the subsequent torture and “elimination” of themselves and their neighbors?

 History is full of Great Ideas.

Like, why were we given the necessary tools to ask and try to understand them?

Wouldn’t it be better to be that front monkey getting groomed?****

*Where does all the dust come from? What is it made of? Who named it dust? Is a living thing or inanimate detritus? OMG, do NOT google or Ai this word…unless you have time…

**Except for the scholarship to a great university that lead to the best year of my life in 1970-1971. Hey, that’s a Great Idea for next time!

***It is so interesting to hear a 50-year-old complain about aging. Or a 40-year-old. It makes a 74-year-old feel so fecking smart. They should pass a law about when it’s okay to complain about age. ANY age. And who is They?

****An it and a that in one sentence. We’ve come a long way from grunts and farts.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream, My Ass

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Shakespeare* wrote those words–except for “My Ass”– hundreds of years ago when a well-known, porcine-related character discussed death with himself. It is a profound, deep-meaning soliloquy with oft-quoted-out-of-context short and long sentences with clauses, semi-colons, and dramatic commas resulting in an excellent rant about Existence and the The End**.

Modern American Seniors have their own opinions, however, on what The Bard of Avon was really referring to: actual loss of sleep. It is odd how William makes “the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to” seem so dramatic when all we really hear is there is too much going on to get some, good, solid, long-time sleep. There are no “slings and arrows” flying across our bedrooms*** but there is a lot of cerebral activity. So much activity the poor brain stands as if in the doorway of the bedroom, ready to flick the light switch off but…can’t..do…it.

A thought racing across our brain cells IS sometimes the knowledge we can put ourselves “to sleep perchance to dream” in a very real and permanent way but we’re just not ready yet, so…

Instead we ponder the Cognitive Impairment conundrum: how it creeps up on us and when we have it, we won’t know, even as we wonder who put our car keys in the produce drawer of the refrigerator.

Or we wonder why we feel so good but still can’t generate enough interest in a late dinner at our favorite restaurant to get us out of our favorite chair.

And is there anyone who will listen to us and invent easy-on, easy-off socks?

Even worse: is there anyone who will listen to us at all?

The night then becomes a debate between…what was I talking about?

Oh, yes, how hard it is to sleep the good sleep, anymore. Most nights start well, even when the Yankees lose. But after the first few hours of sleep, when the first bathroom “break” wakes us with an unnecessary urgency, and shortly after we check the refrigerator for the perfect, healthy snack that won’t harm our brushed teeth or sensitive digestion system, it is the re-falling back asleep that fails, utterly****.

After the many nights this happens it is clearly no longer about slings and arrows or The End, but a thought all its own that consumes one: will I ever get back to sleep? The question is accompanied by the close observation and analysis of anything that comes to mind from the macro, like our current high inflation, to the micro: will I be warm enough without socks?

Running out pf space, as usual, but when your own brain becomes your own sleep disrupter…well, I never remember that happening as a young man.

Hmm. Is that because of a bad memory, it never happened, or Cognitive Decline?

Let me sleep on it.

*Probably. Or he may not have. Or someone else did. A guy named Bacon. Or an alien.

**Most Americans probably can recite this speech by simply muttering every short, trite saying they’ve heard about Shakespeare. To be or not to be. Whether tis nobler.  To sleep, etc…oh, and “the tyranny of life”.

***Or any of the other areas we may try to get (eye) closure.

****Wonderfully guttural word. And, yes, that is how I found my keys.

*****In upstate NY the temperatures change fast. A semi-nude, 80 degree outside sleep session can be sadly ended when the toes warn your body the early-morning outside temperature has dropped to 60. Socks, again?