AS I SEE IT

Do you ‘sleep like a rock’? Do you ‘swim like a fish?’ Do you ‘sing like a bird?’ If you do, I’m writing to Ripley. Comparisons annoy me. Most are ludicrous.

I sleep because I’m tired, the day is done. My body, my mind need a rest. Sleep comes, not always easily but it comes, stays a while and leaves.

I can swim but have no fins, no gills, no long training skills to make me a champ and if the water isn’t too cold, too rough, I can enjoy a short swim in a long pool.

I can’t sing like a bird but my voice is adequate, can carry a tune. If I sing along with Barbra or in the shower, I’m great... but trills and tweeting while swallowing my wormy breakfast is a terrible thought.

Yes, I do make comparisons often myself, like when I last baked a chocolate cake that didn’t rise, didn’t have the courage to send it on its way down the garbage disposal and left it on the counter for three days until it was ‘hard as a rock.’ And that wasn’t very factual either.

‘Put some ice in it. This water tastes like pee,’ my neighbor once told me. ‘Joe, if you really need it, here’s the ice. When did you taste pee last? Maybe it is better now!’

Whether my walk looks like a duck or not is debatable. My tail doesn’t stand up, waggle. My arches are strong, my feet not webbed. ‘George, if I walk like a duck, you smell like a pig,’ I tell my close friend. That wasn’t nice. It isn’t even true. I never smelled a pig.

Ah, Sally told me yesterday, as she watched me think, then write and write, ‘You are something. You are smart as a whip.’ I told her not to flatter me but I don’t know how smart a whip is, so maybe what she said was wrong.

Possibly I’m a rarity but I don’t like my air conditioning at freezing ‘70.’ Mine is set the way I like it ‘78.’ George stops by and as soon as I open the door for him, he remarks, ‘Christ, it’s hot in here.’ I don’t like to be called Christ. I have stopped arguing with George about how hot hell was went he visited last time and lower the control to 76, turn on a ceiling fan, put a chair directly under it and tell him to sit there or leave. He sits a while and leaves.

Just today Sally said to me,’ You don’t look good. You are white as a ghost.’ I raised my arms over my head, moved close to her face and loudly shouted, ‘BOO!’ Poor Sally, I darn near scared her to death. ‘Sally, I’m beat. I’ve exercised for 45 minutes, rode my bike for two miles in the hot sun but surely am not as white as a ghost. Maybe I am as white as a freshly laundered high count cotton sheet.’ Sally tells me to take care of myself and goes home.

And–because I am what I am ‘silly as a goose,’ FORGIVE ME, go have a nice day.