My Life As A Hobby

  I was two days out of knee surgery, lying on my bed in a Loratab-induced fog, when I sat up and uttered a sentence to my wife that I never imagined would come out of my mouth. “Hey, I’m going to get my walker, go to the kitchen, and take a Flomax.” The instant it passed my lips, I thought, “Sweet Moses…what did I just say?” “I don’t say things like that,” I told myself. “Old people say things like that - real old people.” Then the thought struck me like a geriatric thunderbolt.  I am 72.  And folks…that is old. For example, if I was involved in a car accident right now, the local news anchor wouldn’t say, “A man was injured.” No. They’d say, “An elderly man was transported to the hospital.” Operative word:  Elderly. That hits a little different when it’s aimed directly at you. I’ve also noticed something else lately. Fifty-year-old people say “yes sir” to me now. “Yes sir.” When did that start happening? I still remember being the guy who said “yes sir” to people w...

  “ You ought to write a book ,” is something I’ve heard most of my adult life.  It seems like at every get-together when someone hears one of the stories I’ve told for years, that suggestion eventually pops up.  And it’s something I’ve considered, as I began writing slices of my life which I posted on line, in newspapers and magazines.  And now, a few years later, I hit “print” and our printer came to life.  Within seconds it whirred,  churned, and flashed, then began slurping up blank sheets the way a kid eats spaghetti. Soon, printed pages began stacking in the tray. In 20 minutes, I had a complete manuscript of my first book - nearly 200 pages long.  I took it off the machine and tapped it repeatedly on the kitchen table to square the stack. It felt heavy, substantial - after all, it was almost half a ream of 8 1/2” x 11” paper . Each sheet, every single one, was full of…me - musings that came out of my brain, traveled into my fingers, and o...

On the morning of my second thyroid cancer surgery, the surgeon pulled back the curtain and said, “Hey, how are you doing?” From where I was lying, I felt the question really should’ve been directed the other way. “Actually, Doc,” I said, “how are you doing?” Without missing a beat, he held up his hands and began shaking them as if he had Parkinson’s. “Other than this, fine.” We both laughed. “Cut away,” I said. “I’m glad you finally get me.” And now - after two surgeries and a round of radiation - I’ve been declared cancer-free. Obviously, I tried to keep my sense of humor through the whole ordeal, as scary and frustrating as it was. Jokes have always been my way of coping. I even gave my tumor a name: Tyrone. I figured if something was going to live inside me uninvited, it at least needed proper identification. My friends, of course, did not allow me the luxury of self-pity. Snide, snarky remarks were their version of compassion. Or maybe it was just cruelty - with these guys it’s on...