.. But What's That in Jog Years?

Hello.

You wake up because your dog wakes you up. You haven’t taken her out since seven o’clock the previous night because you were tired and it was raining. You feel guilt. So, it is 6 a.m. and Lexi wants to pee. Fine! You yourself have to pee anyway since your prostate gland is the size of a beanbag chair or a weather balloon, both of which are comparisons you have made before because you are a writer who is out of new ideas, being 73 years old. You pee, then take her out to pee. It is your sacred duty, and you accept it with honor and distinction. Your partner is still asleep, as is her birthright.

The dog is nearly five. This is the age most humans learn to wipe themselves. But Lexi is roughly 35 years old in “dog years,” an absurd measurement that makes no sense to anyone, including me, who is still confused by the concept of “apps.”

So here you are in the street. Your knees ache and here is why: You don’t know. Okay? It’s just one of those things that happen over time. You are basically just grateful that you woke up. This is what life is like at 73.

So, you and Lexi are walking, both happy to be alive, perhaps for different reasons, and then you hear a “clop clop clop” coming down the street. It is two joggers, running in tandem, beside each other, two guys in shorts with armpit stains and hairy thighs. They are roughly 35, attempting to stave off death. They say the following as they streak past you:

“She said I was an asshole.”

“Well, she’s the asshole!”

“Yeah.”

Then they were gone.

I know nothing more about these two guys except that she was definitely not the asshole.

I don’t like early-morning joggers. They remind me of how sedentary I am, and also how I am going to die, probably next year.

Okay.

I am not really sure I have anything more to offer today.

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