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Saturday, May 5, 2012
Bobby's gotten mean and cranky as he's gotten older. He doesn't like me to speak to him if he's watching a trial on TruTV or if he's skimming though his mail or talking on the telephone. Those same rules do not apply to me when I am engaged in some similar activity, though. I am fair game, 24/7.
He's started complaining about people we encounter on the street. He has told young men with thick arms and dirty hair to get out of his way and to stop playing guitar outside his gate and to go and get a job if they want a cigarette. He's begun to refer to pedestrians by rude, nasty names while riding in the car, loudly enough for them to hear him.
He'll say to me, "Do you think she heard me? I wanted her to hear me. Yes, I called you a cow, you heifer!"
He's not above dumpster-diving if he believes there might be something there that he can use. We have a coat rack in our living room he found this way. It's held up by a web of fishing line attached at strategic points to the wall behind it.
Every time we leave the house, he insists on snipping gardenia blossoms off one of his bushes and passing them out to the shopkeepers on the block, whether they like gardenias or not. He also saves our plastic shopping bags to distribute to those same shopkeepers so they can recycle them.
I wonder sometimes what might have been if I had not said yes thirty-six years ago.
It's like one morning, you roll over and open your eyes and look around the room, and you see that, while you were sleeping, your whole life happened.
For better, for worse ... and all the rest of it.