Yesterday I went to the library. Being how it was raining, I figured it was a good way to spend a day and take home some good stuff that I could enjoy by myself. I selected a good book, about heart breaking losses in baseball and two DVDs, one with James Mason and Richard Burton, “Desert Rats” and a horror flick the way it should be made with Boris Karloff.
While perusing the shelves of the cinema and literary worlds, I couldn’t help but notice that I am missing a great deal of selection from the bottom shelves. It seems that my body has decided what I shall read or see. If it means I have to bend my knees, or worst still, bend at the waist, forgettaboutit.
Unless there is money on the ground, or a picnic lunch on a blanket, you “Ain’t getting me ta bend down.” No, my body has certain limits, it refuses too be inconvenienced and will react angrily to my pushing it. I have tried to: reason with it, begged it, bribed and cajoled it, it just won’t do it.
I suspect that the defiance is due to my retirement, and the fact that if I won’t sit in traffic, I’m not bending down.
So if I’m missing the boat in literature and the cinema, it’s probably because they put the boat on the bottom shelf.
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