May 13, 2024
So, the cicadas are out in full force here in the south. The minute I open my garage door I am assaulted by the noise, the cacophony if you will. But honestly, I don’t hate it. In fact, call me crazy; I kind of like it. I find the constant screeching, buzzing, vibrating, clicking, whatever you want to call it, sort of soothing to my recently diagnosed less than adequate ears. It’s a comforting white noise for my soul. Now, the little bastards themselves are another story. I find them quite creepy. But they keep their distance so we’re good. As we are witnessing their current emergence from a long sleep after 13 and 17 years, an unusual occurrence of “converging emerging” resulting in trillions more critters and unrestrained decibels of NOISE and a boatload of cicada carcasses all over the everlovin’ terrain. It ain’t pretty, but that’s Mother Nature. For all the mayhem they seem to cause, they’ll be gone in a veritable blink. Like nothing ever happened. Nothing but a distant memory soon forgotten. I guess these little beings don’t have much to contend with in terms of having a life and something to show for it. Having a life and dealing with its tribulations. Having a life and people to love. Having a life and experiencing sorrows and joys. Having a life and wondering what happens next. Having a life and charting a course.
As I ponder this ever-present dilemma of the cicada life cycle I wonder if they are somehow being cheated or do they actually have it right? Just get it over with quickly and painlessly and not deal with the whole aging process we humans do. The last few years have not been kind to me and many of my friends and loved ones as we become “longer in the tooth.” I have been hospitalized twice in six months, including subsequent stays in rehab facilities, or as I like to call them “please shoot me now” residences where hot coffee is non-existent and edible food is a once-a-week event. My mid-section has expanded and my legs which used to be long and svelte have somehow become short and chunky. It’s a good thing I’m not insecure, huh? One enjoyable Sunday morning ritual is lining up my medications and placing them in one of those oh so attractive plastic pill containers designated by the days of the week as well as the number of doses per day. I remember not so long ago performing this chore lovingly for my parents. And now it’s my turn. Sigh.
Many of us have what I like to call the “accoutrements of old age”: Things like CPAP machines (just let me die). I have already told my doctors that the only thing I want on my face is Hugh Jackman. I just can’t do it. Things like walking aids: I admit I use what I like to call a walking stick (much sexier than a cane) for when I am in areas where the terrain is iffy. It’s safer, sensible, and better than falling on your ass. Why fight it? Speaking of “aids” I recently became the proud owner of the ultimate old geezer accessories – hearing aids. They are luckily quite small and unimposing. They match my hair, and they do the job. A girl can’t ask for more than that. And it’s so much better than asking “excuse me, what did you say?”
Some of us have lots of wrinkles, some have fewer. Who cares. I have been blessed genetically by my mother’s side of the family. My sisters and I don’t have a lot of wrinkles, a few lines, but not a plethora of wrinkles, but honestly if I did, I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. At some point we need to accept it. I would much rather spend my time enjoying what time I have left instead of looking in the mirror than attempting to defy Mother Nature. It simply can’t be done. There are other issues us “old folks” deal with that aren’t pretty that require certain “products” but I’ll just leave it there. You get the picture. Suffice it to say, that I think I am going to leave any attempt at forging new romantic entanglements on the back burner. I just don’t think I have the energy—unless he’s blind and has no tactile sensation in his hands. Sheesh. Speaking of hands, arthritis has reared its ugly head for me –in my hands, more specifically in my two middle fingers. Yep. And I am pretty sure this is no accident. I have seven brothers. Those middle fingers have come in handy through the years. And now they are worn out. I hope you’re happy bros.
So. despite the aches and pains, the trials and tribulations, the problems and sadness we humans encounter along the way in this path we call life, I think I am glad I am not a cicada. How sad it must be to live in the dirt, climb out of the dirt for a few weeks, hang out with your friends, making a bunch of noise bothering the neighbors, having sex with a bunch of strangers, shedding your shell and then dying, another nameless slug squashed on a driveway. It’s a little reminiscent of some college weekends back in the 60s. Those were the days. When we didn’t have arthritis. And CPAP machines. And wrinkles. And hearing aids. And Medicare.
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