My residence on the couch started three years ago this week. What began with the night of the raging back spasm, which if you'll recall dear reader, had me face down on a floor in agonizing pain and barely able to get up. A night which saw the Breadwinner crunch the numbers and decide that it was not worth the money to get me a ride to the ER so that i could be pumped full of drugs in order to ease the mind-numbing pain, a night which saw even the slightest of movements start the spasms up again after i had slowly and gingerly made my way to the couch because there was no way i was going to be able to walk up the stairs. It was sleepless night spent with a fist dug into my back because that was the home remedy Breadwinner had looked up on the internet. Fast forward 48 hours and Pops would break the news to me that he had not one, but two forms of cancer and that the prognosis was not good, and you could say that this was the shit week of shit weeks. Or you could spend the next three years smoking copious amounts of ganja (or ingesting it in various ways in the name of "healthy living") and reading too many books on Eastern Mysticism, Buddhism, and magic mushrooms which in turn have helped to give a whole new perspective on that week.
So this week, amid the pandemic, i shuffled off to the doc for my yearly physical. The blood work always seeming to give me pause because they put all kinds of flags and statistics that are one size fits all but really don't work that way. In short, i'm in excellent condition once again even though i haven't been able to swim, something that is driving me batty, though i have gotten back to running and let me say there is nothing quite like pounding away on the treadmill when Joy Division comes on and i not only run but incorporate the dance moves of one Ian Curtis into my workout. Which brings to mind the million penny idea of Kono's Post-Punk Workout brought to you by Cannabis. But let us not get distracted. My doc, who is has won the local Doctor's Ballon d'Or in Messi like fashion on numerous occasions, always gets a good laugh from me. When i asked about said blood work he said it was excellent except for the one bit and then i mentioned that i had actually lowered that 16 points since last year and am closer to the number recommended by those who make up such numbers. He smiled and then rammed a digit up the buckeye to let me know my prostate was hunky dory.
Of course all that reading of Lao Tzu and his friends has done wonders for the mental state and while it is not all a calm seas and light breezes around these parts things are still holding together. If one refers back to previous ramblings they'll discover at how the Breadwinner went through a period of anger and disgust of my leaving the not-so-conjugal bed in favor of the downstairs couch. These days it's barely mentioned unless one counts the times when it comes up because i have a few bits of clothes and my shaving kit kept in said room. Then again the new cat has taken up residence and bonded quite strongly with the Breadwinner so though the situation is paid the occasional lip service i think that's more for show than actual wanting me to return. In fact most of my presence in the master bedroom has been removed, which i find amusing to say the least. The master bath, the one which i no longer clean, has been arranged to the Breadwinner's liking, set up for one not two and that is fine by me. In fact i would move all my possessions, most of my clothes are still in the room but i usually wait until she is not in there to go and get them or better yet leave a few things in my downstairs cave, except for the fact of keeping up appearances for the boyos. Like Pops laid out to me, when the time comes i'll explain to them that what they saw growing up was a very dysfunctional relationship and that i hope it gives them a blueprint of what to avoid in their own as adults.
Now don't think i underestimate my role in this fiasco because i don't. I fully understand that i am one half of the equation and that if i say, tried more to be a better partner, it might be met with dare i say a positive reception. Then again it might not and there is one aspect of the relationship which most definitely would not which is a physical part that i don't believe either one of us wants to rekindle. With all my big hairy Carol Brady like reading of supermarket news stand articles i came across one that stated men in a relationship feel most loved when they are getting laid. Who'd a thunk? I for one can say i've never equated sex with love but then again maybe i've misjudged the situation. Is it possible for El Kono to be wrong? Of course it fucking is, i spend most of my life being wrong, of course my relationship with the opposite sex has always been a bit skewed and once again one would need a couch and endless hours of therapy to figure it out.
Getting back to all that Zen monk shit i tend to ponder there are reasons for my newfound outlook on things. Digging deeper into the naturalness of emotion and existence my reading has helped me to understand that it's okay to walk into a quiet room and curse a fucking blue streak, it takes the edge off and usually by the time i'm done i'm laughing like the happy Buddha himself. The point is to not fight the natural but to let it happen and move on. The typical day around these parts now has me running through the morning and into the afternoon as a modern day serf in the gig economy. On arriving home the Breadwinner will be firmly ensconced in her room, lying in bed with said cat, Ipad, telly on CNN, usually sleeping or feigning sleep. The rest of the night goes something like this: I clean up from the day, do laundry, have a cup of green tea, converse with the boyos about stuff, make dinner, clean up dinner and do the dishes, help with homework if needed, scoop litter boxes, clean more, on days when there is practice i get said boyo out the door and drive to practice, wait, drive home from practice, and finally do one last bit of picking up around the place so that in the morning i can get up and make the boyos breakfast before starting the process again. I love taking care of me boyos cuz i know before long they'll be leaving the nest and living their lives. I don't exactly dig cleaning up after an adult who tends to treat me as the hired help but let's face it, this situation is not a partnership in any sense of the word but more a overlord and serf and we serfs must find the beauty and joy where we can.
Of course what state does that leave our protagonist in for this half century edition? Fucking cool like lemonade. I'll keep up my Zen studies and mushroom eating ways, i'll keep drinking smoothies loaded with shit like spinach, bananas, berries, peanut butter and what have you (honestly i'm addicted to the things i enjoy them so much), i'll keep up with my running and hopefully, vaccine willing, swimming, i'll keep ingesting my beloved ganja in numerous strains and sundry ways, because really, what is there to piss and moan about? The eternal now has brought me here so here is where i'll be and when i'm standing in the kitchen, looking out the back window at the birds and squirrels and groundhogs, a cat purring and rubbing against my legs, Nick Disaster and his lovely mop of hair walking up behind me and giving me a hug, what else is there to do but enjoy the ride? (and yes i stole that from Bill Hicks) Now on with the show.