Wednesday, April 20, 2016

The changing of the rules

I have a few rules to go by, live by, never derivate from. Cardinal rules, you know.

Important stuff:

No white sox with long pants. No black ones with shorts. Like, ever.

Always sleep on my side, on an arm. Always.

Never take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night before bed.

Never take life seriously. It's not. It's more of a guideline here, but it's not. Ever.

Eat well. Stay fit. 100 percent out of 100 die. So, make everything fried. Always.

A balanced diet is a donut in each hand.

Never lick a steak knife. Never put the cap back on the toothpaste (why, why, oh, why?), which even if you're doing a science experiment on how they get the dang stuff in that tube is dumb. 

Never read the instructions on the back of a shampoo bottle. They will blow your mind. In fact, just as a rule (which is what we're doing anyway) never read instructions. It's a man thing. Seriously. We know how to put stuff together, and we know to rinse after we put on shampoo.

Never blow your horn at me and I won't blow mine at you. But if you do, well, that's a problem. If you think I'm driving slow before the horn, just you wait. And wait. And wait.

Try desperately not to think of what I don't have but instead thank God for what I have. 

Never ever never let my reality check bounce.

Finally, never argue with a hard-head, especially on theological terms. They drag you down to their level, then beat you up with experience.

I write all that to say that today, to my complete chagrin, there was a pair of white socks on the bathroom counter. When I was prepared in my daily ritual (shirt first, then pants, then socks -- again, always), there they were.

I contemplated deeply. Pondered some more. Thought, through the haze of only one cup of coffee, then went for it. I put the white socks on. With pants.

Suddenly, without even realizing it, I had become my father. Old. Lazy. Did I mention old?

I had traded leisure and lack of steps for a cardinal rule. What was next? Caps on toothpaste. A made bed? Clothes picked up from the floor and put into the bin? What next? All the rules came rushing by me like a salesman's pitch on the phone. Oh, the humanity.

Suddenly old, I rushed out to think of more rules and more rules and still more rules.

I suddenly knew that I needed to read everyone I meet like I wanted to be treated. I suddenly felt the need to watch a sunrise at least once this year. I felt the sincere need to compliment at least three folks every day starting with today, to never waste what could be my last opportunity to tell someone I love them, to keep all my stuff simple, and to get rid of some of my stuff, and to say "thank you" with a name if possible to every person behind every counter I come in contact with.

I suddenly knew without doubt that I want to avoid negativity like the plague, to commit myself to improving spiritually this year, to look people in the eye even those I really, really disagree with, and to never under any circumstances underestimate the power of love.

As one gets older than dirt, one feels finally that maybe the rules need changing, beginning with being able to say "I don't know" every single time I don't know (which is often).

Finally, as I wear my white socks today, I will make absolutely sure I count my blessings. I will. I must, because I've been blessed all my life. For every dip, every down, every loss, there was the blessing of the next hill, the next up, the next gain. Love keeps us alive folks, and God loves us the most.

That's a rule.

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