I hurt my hands. All the time. A stubbed thumb. A ripped nail. A nicked fingertip here, a scratch in the crease of a joint there. Frequently, I'll discover a bleeding finger and can't remember how I did it. Haul some firewood and I get a splinter. Fix a lamp and a wire will find its way under my fingernail. Use a tool and scrape some knuckles. Grab something heavy and pull a cuticle away from its fingernail-bed. I average two injuries a month, more than twenty a year, hundreds every decade.
Somehow my brain's awareness of—or connection to—everything beyond my wrists isn't very good.
It took years of "little accidents" to recognize I had this personal quirk. Gloves help. Not using machinery helps more. Concentrating on focusing my attention and not letting my mind drift whenever I need to do something dangerous (e.g. wash dishes, hammer a nail) helps the most.
Although knowing my limitations hasn't eliminated every hangnail, every year I use measurably fewer Band-aids.
Along a similar "self-awareness vein," I came to realize that I would most-probably die of a heart attack sometime in my mid-60s (which means—today—I have about ten years of life left to live). In my mid-30's I made this estimate based on actuarial tables (average death-age and cause of demise of recent male ancestors; adding some years for healthy habits, subtracting for unhealthy ones) and subsequently chose to retire in my 40s. Today—over a decade later—I'm still semi-retired. [Addendum: I wrote this in 2014. This article, written in 2019, explains why I may not die in two years or less.]
Recently I told a close family member about my early-retirement rationale. Instead of recognizing my logic and being supportive, this relative refused to part with long-held preconditioned statistics preached by government and followed without question by the masses ("retirement age" is the mid-60s; everyone dies 15-20 "golden years" later). [This essay, also written in 2019, explains why covert/vindictive narcissists opt to always be negative.]
My mother's father and grandfather both worked until they died (at 61 and 57). My father died at 60. None retired. All continued to amass: possessions, vacation days, and pensions; woke every morning to an alarm clock; worked in order to live and lived in order to work until their hearts stopped beating; and left a bitter wife who'd stopped sharing a bedroom with them years earlier (for at least one of them).
I can think of nothing sadder.
On the other hand, I've spent most of the last ten years (and hope to have at least ten more) doing what I consider the ultimate bliss: ridding myself of stuff, vacationing and spending my pension wisely; waking only when my body doesn't want any more sleep; all the while giving and receiving as many orgasms as she-who-is-my-best-friend and I desire. [This poem, written at the very end of 2019, explains why I am still deeply in love with my wife.]
Without expanding the video, listen to my signature song while reading the oh-so appropriate lyrics.
- solo "trumpet" / keyboard intro -
Can you believe me when I say...there's nothing I like better - than just to sit here and ta-aalk with you?
Although I'll rant and I'll rave about one thing and another - the beauty of it is—hope you'll agree—
tho' I'm a po-oor boy
I can still be ha-aappy
s'long as I can fe-eel free
So many people, I know, gettin' old a-way too early (well aren't you feelin' kind of weary?)
just to impress you with the money they make. (you betta...ya betta...ya betta change yer theory.)
One drop of rain, they complain, and it's the same about the wage they're earnin.
Well that is not the way I'm gonna be.
Don't mind the rain. Don't mind snow. Don't mind nothin'...if I know: You will be...ri-ight here with me.
(We like to say, 'don't mind yer point of view.' But how can we all afford to live like you?)
(The simple life is simply not enough. We have appearances we must keep up.)
- clarinet solo -
(Po-oor Boy) If that's the way it's gotta be.
(Po-oor Boy) It's you for you, and me for me.
(Po-oor Boy)
I've tried all I can...understanding...all the fools, and all their money; when half of what they've got—you know—they never will use.
Enough to get by...suits me fine...I don't care if they think I'm funny.
I'm never gonna change my point of view.
Don't mind the rain. Don't mind snow. Don't mind nothin, if I know...you will be...right here with me. All the way. (na-na-na)
Don't mind the rain. Don' mind snow. Don' mind no-oothing, if I know. You will be. Right here with me.
- solo "trumpet" / keyboard outro -
Poor Boy lyrics by Rodger Hodgson and Rick Davies (Supertramp, 1975)
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