There was a time when I was more or less the change I wanted to see. Between working full time and living in wrecks while remodeling them, I was blessed with physical exhaustion that made insomnia infrequent and nightmares too fleeting to dwell on, if recalled at all.
But now that I’m older, my congenital skeletal asymmetry is grinding my joints to dust, bone by bone.
Now I’m more or less the change I’m forced to see, whenever PTSD lets up enough to let me observe changes. Insomnia is nightly, my nightmares are accompanied by daymares, and there doesn’t seem to be an opt-out option for not dwelling on either one now that I can’t just get out of my chair, grab a paint roller or a power saw and get too busy on changing things to have time for the things I can’t change.
One change I’ve been forced to see lately is that my favorite clothes are becoming hole-y simultaneously and similarly. My two favorite long sleeve T-shirts have a hole at the right elbow, which is apparently the boniest. Similarly, a pair of blue jeans and two pair of non-blue jeans have holes beneath my right hip, unquestionably the boniest (if the right front pocket isn’t sewn down, the bone can and will turn it inside out).
I’ll mourn the loss of all my hole-y clothes, but my gray jeans in particular.
The leg lengths don’t match each other, which just happened to make my long leg look shorter than my short leg, and vice versa. I don’t know why I’ve always found that so freaking funny, but I have. And I don’t just like to laugh, I love to laugh. My gray jeans were my Happy Pants.
With an irreverent mindset, aging poorly can be humorous.
But dying young never is. This week in the Sunshine State there are parents whose children have bullet holes in their clothes, and bullet holes in their bodies, and there are children whose parents have bullet holes in their clothes, and bullet holes in their bodies.
I know my thoughts and prayers won’t do a damn thing for the Parkwood victim’s families and friends, so I’m going to direct both towards having the universe send me a new pair of Happy Pants. (Any color will do.)
While seated, I can keep pestering politicians to enact gun control. I’ll use the hashtags #WellRegulated and #GunControlNow, because Second Amendment rights aren’t limitless, and no one on the public payroll should pretend otherwise, ever again. It time for us to stop letting NRA suck-ups stop wiping the smiles off our faces … they are heartless, hopeless, smile-for-the-camera “things” we can change, starting in November.