Curse of the alarm clock

The alarm clock goes off. It’s a liar. Every morning it’s the same thing: MORE LIES! It’s not 5 a.m. Probably more like 4 or 4:30. Cruel trickster. Hit snooze. Go back to sleep. I want my hour back. Alarm clock goes off again. It’s 6 a.m. No longer so sure it was lying to me. Who thinks that?!? Quite a hole I’ve dug for myself. Precious little time to go running, get cleaned up, make a kid’s lunch, eat, walk a dog and get the whole family off to where they’re supposed to be — school and work. So stupid of me! Oh well. Hit snooze. Go back to sleep. Alarm clock goes off at 6:15. GET UP!

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The big 4-0 isn’t scary. But 39? Jeepers!

You don’t frighten me, 40. You don’t give me the shivers. Don’t make me quake in my boots. Lament the years gone by, or the things I haven’t done. When I hear your name, I don’t think about how quickly time is passing, or those little stripes of gray in my hair that I used to blame on sloppy painting. No, 40, you don’t scare me. But 39? Yeah, for some reason, I fear you. You shiver me right out of my boots. Make me want to go look up the word “lament” and see what it means. (Is it like something that needs ointment? Or a liver ailment from overeating cheese?) When I hear your name — thir-ty-nine! Pum-pum-pum-PUM! — I want to bear hug the time that is quickly slipping by. And the gray hair? No, man, that’s just paint streaks.

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The art of dropping a ball

It was magical, wasn’t it? A fingertip grab. A quarterback buried deep in his own territory. An almost futile lob down the field to the sideline. The game getting late. The score against them. Some kind of tiny miracle required. No, a huge miracle. Something fitting of a Super Bowl. That’s what Eli Manning and the Giants needed. That’s what they got when he connected with Mario Cunningham on the most incredible, perfect, I-just-wet-my-pants catch. Even if you don’t care a lick about football, you had to be impressed. If you were like me — there for the commercials about dogs and aliens driving sports cars — you still marveled at it. Dreamed about it. Wondered why in the heck you couldn’t snag a ball like that. Couldn’t come close. Because even in my dreams I would drop that ball. Even … in … my … DREAMS!

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Goodbye training wheels, hello ulcer

“Big Pink” is now “Sparkle,” or “Diamond,” or “Mango Freddy.” Something like that. It’s a metamorphosis of sorts. A big change. The training wheels have come off the little pink Huffy bicycle. It has a white basket on front that is loaded down with seashells. My daughter held a wake when it became clear the trainers weren’t going back on. Right there in the shed, amongst the gasoline smells and the remnants of a squirrel’s frat party.

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