I saw a recent photograph of myself. I looked old and bitter. Can't do anything about getting older, except die soon, and I don't care to exercise that option at this time. But I sure can do something about being bitter. So I did. After 37 years of marriage, I got a divorce.
And then I woke up and found myself in a second floor apartment, charming inside. Outside looks like a Motel Six.
For a brief time, I lived with a bed, a cat, and a beat-up folding chair I picked up by the dumpster. Oddly it wasn't an unpleasant experience, and my home was never cleaner. Not to mention neat.
Reality set in when the furniture arrived...not easy to be carefree and neat when you have furniture.
All this happened about three years ago and during that time I amassed a wealth of useful information about surviving in the urban wilds as an elderly runaway...which is a damn good thing because no one else has any.
I've combed the internet seeking useful information such as:
* What is in the basic inventory of tools for common house-hold repairs and how to use them,
* Are there health-related or ethical reasons for making a bed,
* To what surfaces should you avoid the application of Goo-Off,
* Where is the optimal placement for a tasteful tattoo that will still be recognizable in five years...other than on the butt of a twenty year-old,
* And is it ill-mannered to pee with the bathroom door open if no one is home but yourself?
All I found were research papers written by 30 year olds on the prevalence of depression among elderly widowed or divorced persons, or neither of the above. Well, if we are depressed it's because we can't make an informed decision about where to put the tattoo.
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