ROTE

The ability to sleep till the sun was at perigee was a blessing of my youth. Weekends in those days were those bonus days at the end of a five day work week that you looked forward to. And working only eight hours in one day, coupled with 340% more energy than I can lay claim to nowadays, meant one was not dog tired as he punched the time clock, and the day was still relatively young.

Fast forward quite a number of years. I now find myself employed where 12 hour shifts are the industry standard, which makes for a much shorter work week, but also, coupled with 350% less energy than I had those many years ago, makes for a much more draining work day. Now when I swipe that badge thru the reader, the legs are hurting, I'm hungry, and the day is shot for all practical purposes. Going home, getting a shower, slapping on some smell-good and heading out to party the night away is a laughable proposition.

Instead, if I'm lucky, the wife wasn't working that day, or had gotten off work much earlier than me, and has dinner and a fresh cup of coffee waiting for me when I drag my sore old ass up the steps and into my double wide. If not, I'll be nuking some lean cuisine in the microwave. I'll eat my meal and prepare a nice hot bath, not so much for cleanliness as to treat my sore muscles. The rest of the night will be devoted to checking e-mail, separating the junk mail from the real, trying to catch up on blogs, maybe posting to my own, and watching whatever favorite TV shows might be on that night. Then, come 11 PM, we retire to the waterbed and snuggle for the perfunctory 5 minutes before claiming our territory on our respective sides for the night. If I'm off the next day, I don't worry about the alarm, although I know that I'll wake up anyway far sooner than I would want to thanks to a thoroughly screwed up biological clock, which has been trained to prepare my brain to awaken when the clock, set at 6 AM, goes off. I do not use the snooze alarm. I shut it off and get up, because I have a short time budgeted to getting ready for work and getting out the door, otherwise I wouldn't even get the lousy 6 hours I might get to sleep.

When life becomes rote, you begin to question where and why you're where you are. You know damn well how you got here, and know that second-guessing yourself isn't going to change your reality. You arrived here through fate, a series of unfortunate events, or just plain luck. I say luck in my case because in so many ways I made out like gangbusters. Meeting and marrying my wife set in motion a series of events that either denied me many opportunities, or saved me from a far worse fate than whatever I may feel I may be suffering now. There's no real way to judge what might have been, even knowing the kinds of directions you think you might have taken given other choices. I did not marry this woman because it was something required of me by a higher power. I HAD to marry this woman because once I was in her clutches any other choice would have seemed insane. I hope like hell that in the end she feels the same way.

In many ways I feel trapped in a world of my own making. This is the fodder of fantasies, the middle aged crazies, the convertible with the bleach blonde bimbo in the passenger seat, but I can assure you that is a picture I honestly can't conjure up in my mind. The fantasies that my mind cooks up may involve a solar powered cabin in an unspoiled woods somewhere far from the hustle and hostility of American life, but my wife is there with me. When two become one, you can't separate your better half from any dream you might care to dream. I can't consider that anything other than a good thing.

I know that somewhere in the back of my wife's wish list is a husband that was a better provider, more energy for mad, passionate love, and who didn't have to be invited into the back forty for a day of good hard work. I have an equally wistful wish list of my own, so I guess that makes us even. I suppose if two lovers were completely happy with each other, utter boredom would doom such a perfect union in short order. I think we stare at each other on occasion with a look that says "If you think you'd really be happier, then feel free; go for it. You have to ask yourself just one question.......are you feeling lucky? Well, ARE you punk?" We never ask that out-loud, because we both know the answer. We both feel damn lucky to have found each other, all things considered.

I've been alone. I've been totally on my own with no one else to count on. I could have chosen to view my singularity as freedom. I choose instead to think of it as misery. I didn't do alone very well. Of course, I didn't do my first marriage very well either, but that was another story. It didn't cure me of seeking meaningful companionship again, despite the chance I'd end up right back in a new form of married misery. But, I got lucky, and after 13 years I still think I made the right choice. I met the right woman, who made that choice the right one. So, I have her to thank for not making me regret it. I can only hope that goes both ways.

When you sit down, stare at the screen, and just start typing, this is what you end up with. Maybe it's not grade-A blogger material, but it's what you get tonight. Stay tuned for tomorrows exciting episode, when THE Michael sits down and actually thinks about what he types, winning a pulitzer in the process.......in his dreams.