“What are your plans tomorrow,” the hubby asks me as we sit in our double recliner after our earlier-all-the-time evening meal.
I briefly recall the recurring line from a cartoon my youngest child (and I) used to watch, Pinky and the Brain: Same thing we do every night, Pinky, plot to take over the world.
It’s seems that concept isn’t all that unlikely, after we’ve watch too many hours of CNN and Fox news, all the while debating the solutions to all of our country’s challenges. News was never meant to be broadcast nor watched 24/7. There should be a Surgeon General’s advisory put on the screen every 3o-minutes. WARNING: Watching this program for long periods of time will alter brain cells, raise blood pressure, contribute to weight gain and intelligence loss and may cause depression, rage or acts of violence in certain individuals!
I answer his question in my sassy way. “S.O.S.D.D (Same old s*#!, different day).”
Actually, retirement isn’t all that different from any other phase of life. You carve out a routine; this time one you are pretty much in control of as opposed to when you were a kid and your parents made the rules, or when you worked and your boss called the shots. Still, it’s a routine and like all routines no matter how enjoyable, you get the itch to shake it up once in a while. Much to my chagrin, we’ve become Sunday (substitute any day of the week here) drivers. Oh yes, those old people who drive around and gawk at the scenery with no particular destination in mind -that’s us.
Thank the heavens we’re not driving 20 miles below the speed limit, yet. I don’t think we’re an irritation to the people who rush from home to work, rush to school, rush to get groceries, pay bills and run other errands, rush to pick up or drop Junior off at soccer practice, then rush from work back home again.
“Let’s go to Hayward for lunch.” The hubby suggests. It’s an hour long road trip.
OMG! That’s what my parents used to do. My parents were old! I am not old. Still, the weather is pleasant and there are some early turning leaves. It will make for an enjoyable day trip.
So we hop into the VW Bug, I settle back into the heated seated, which I explain to hubby isn’t necessarily because I’m cold, but the warmth soothes my aching bones. Tune in the oldies station and off we go.
We have to turn the radio up and down alternately – down when we want to converse and be able to hear each other talk, up when an oldie but goodie comes on and we blast the radio and sing along like we did when we were young.
To keep it interesting, sometimes my better half will make a quick turn onto a road of uncharted territory. I’ve taken to noting the names of cross roads to see if they come out somewhere further down the line – a potential new route for next time.
“What was the name of that road back there,” I asked when I couldn’t quite make out the sign with my cock-eyed, cataract-in-one-eye vision.
‘You mean that field?”
“What are you talking about? That was a paved road. You didn’t see that road back there?”
“Yes I saw the road. Why are you asking me if I saw the road?”
“Because you asked me if I meant that field.”
“I didn’t ask you anything.”
“You didn’t say, that field?”
“Bradfield. I said Brad field. The name of the road was Bradfield Road.”
“You know, if we’d have planned this little trip ahead of time, I could have made us appointments at that hearing clinic.”
“Avoid what steering gimmick? I have both hands on the wheel, what are you talking about?”
“Hearing. I said hearing clinic.”
“Oh, yes. You should really go have that checked out. I think you’re getting deaf.” He reaches over and turns the radio volume back up.
At least they’re playing our song.
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