Courtesy: Joseph Mackereth
Are the cows out again?
What was the scam of 2021? According to the messages on my cell phone, it was—drumroll please—the extended car warranty. Never in my life, other than my dad, has anyone cared so deeply about my car’s maintenance schedule. I mean, these people were relentless. Concern about my little Subaru’s health and safety was international, too. People would call from all over the world to make sure that Donkey (my Subaru) was enjoying life. Their worry was worldwide and it was impressive.
I am of a certain age and my circle of family members that call to ask me when I changed my oil is dwindling. So, the first 30 times or so I received a call about my car warranty it was almost heartwarming. The next 30 times, it was kind of irritating, and the next 30 times after that it was downright maddening. Does anyone know what happened to the No Call list? I miss it.
You know what I would buy? An extended warranty for the human body. Sign me up, lads, because I definitely need that. When you reach a certain age, all the bumps, lumps and slumps you have been muscling your way through every day come home to roost. They roost hard.
I grew up in the “rub some dirt on it and walk it off” school of medical care here in Virginia. Unless you were bleeding, and I mean squirting blood, you walked it off. Sports coaches and my mama were big proponents of the independent approach to body care. You’re fine. Walk it off.
But that’s not an option any more. I have reached the age where my body just can’t walk it off anymore. My body is having trouble just walking. To fix anything these days, I require a community intervention, a skilled surgeon and a boatload of insurance money. I’m not just getting medical attention, I’m becoming bionic.
I have more titanium in my body than a racing bike. My hand has been redone, my knee has been replaced, and my back is metal from the level of my belly button down to my butt. I can’t decide if I’m a rebuilt super hero or the Tin Man from “The Wizard of Oz.” Thankfully, I do have a heart and it seems to be fine. Fingers crossed.
If you grew up on a farm, the four words that would wreck your day were, “the cows are out.” Well, that’s my brain now. My control center, my brain, wanders like a herd of cows out on a day pass. I saunter into the kitchen and then have no idea why. I’ve even started saying quietly, the cows are out, whenever this happens. Daily I am uttering my new motto. Or is that a moo-to?
The boomers are busting. I am one of them. If you are in the same boat, I feel your pain. I honestly do. As soon as my hand heals, and I can find my glasses and walk to my desk, I am going to send you a Get Well card. Now why am I in the kitchen? Oh yeah, the cows are out.
The story above first appeared in our January / February 2022 issue.
