On Wednesday of this week, Andrea and I donated blood at a Red Cross blood drive. We try to do this together as much as permitted, which is approximately every 8-weeks. For a while, Andrea was a flunkie due to not enough iron but she’s overcome that obstacle (barely, but enough) so we sign up at the same drive and around the same time. Andrea’s able to bang out her pint in a rapid 5 minutes while I am over 3 minutes slower. A fact, I like to tell her, which will no doubt save me from bleeding out some day. I mean – hopefully, I avoid a bloody sitch but should I find myself in such a predicament, I’m hoping I’ll fare well. Anyway. After that, we checked out a small, new restaurant near the donor hall. I was whining about barely being able to lift my left arm when an older man ambled up to the bar and ordered a black coffee and slice of cheesecake. “My kind of guy.” I thought. In the small restaurant, we couldn’t help but overhear him tell a story about his days in the Army (which earned him additional esteem in my book). Soon, the waitstaff, bartender and cook gathered around this gentleman at the bar and sang happy birthday to this guy, Arthur. The woman who had emerged from the kitchen to sing ordered the rest of the patrons to join in and we complied. Arthur, who was turning 80, looked more pleased than he did embarrassed. Soon, the evening resumed its normal course and the bar keep hurried over to a table, wine glass in hand, apologizing for the delay, saying she’d gotten carried away by the festivities. The patron was good natured about it, remarking that it wasn’t everyday someone turned 80.
Arthur finished his cheesecake and coffee and the wait staff picked up his tab. Arthur made his way to the door and paused to converse, in fluent Spanish, with a gentleman sitting at the bar. Fluent Spanish. This wasn’t the Dora the Explorer Spanish I can eek out in a pinch. This was full blown Española. Arthur, looking rather dapper in a sport coat, slipped out into the temperate night, white sneakers carrying him off. Hot ticket, Arthur. Hot. Ticket.
Lately, I’m not a hot ticket. I’m barely lukewarm. I want to hibernate in spite of the fact that winter shows signs of relenting. We turn the clocks ahead next weekend and I am definitely looking forward to more daylight. I have a plan to shift to lukewarm this week which involves getting out of bed, meditating and moving my ass because I kinda, sorta fell off the wagon and that bitch ran me over, backed up, ran me over again. Allowing oneself to be run over by a run away wagon doesn’t feel great so that’s motivation to get my shit together. That, and maybe Arthur, because who doesn’t want be kickin’ ass in sneakers at 80?