Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Too Many Bloody Birthdays!

Blood is illuminating.

And was running down my left hand, over my wedding ring.

It glowed a sparkling red. Pretty sight, really, and I considered Shakespeare, Macbeth's  a blood-drenched crown...

My mind (what is left of it) thankfully whip lashed me back to real stuff. I inside our local rip-off coastal market standing behind shopping cart. In one hand was a wifey grocery while the other one bled profusely.

A week ago, I had scuffed my hands rappelling down a cliff. Nothing heroic. Just grubbing for some worthy moonstones. My incurred injuries led me to suspect my skill set for this particular activity had atrophied (a wordy way to say "I am now too old for this shit").

Now I was paying the price, having rescuffed this hand against one of those dangerously sharp metal conveyances. 
Let's be real here. I was bleeding like a mofo in Cookie Crock.

What to do?

Well, the smart thing would be to cruise down the medical aisle, open some way too expensive band aids, and clamp the bloody leak down.

But this was not to be one of my smarter moments.

So as blood dripped over the handle of my shopping cart, I did what any manly man would do. Utilize the resources at hand like my old hero, MacGyver. I outsourced the blank half of my wife's shopping list, ripping it in half and applying pressure to the wound.

Honestly, I'm not a hemophiliac and don't gobble blood thinners. But growing older (and not too much wiser), I've discovered my skin has taken on the qualities of tissue paper, easily ripped--and eager to bleed.

So there I was, pressing a piece of lined paper against my wound, pretending to contemplate the beer section. Corona or Sam Adams, equally expensive twelve packs. 

And things might have gone well...

But a geezer comes up behind me. Now by "geezer" I mean someone at least 5 years beyond my 64. He eagerly regard the bloody piece of paper plastered against my hand, and gives me a smug smile. As he passes on, I think dark thoughts, "Hey, I may be old asshole, but I can still coagulate!"

So I complete my wife's list (the part not drenched to obscurity by the blood running down my hand) and proceeded to 
check out.

It went well at first.
Then I'm about to "slide de card" when the same old man, who has doggedly followed me to the cashier, announces to the whole damn store:

"EXCUSE ME, DO YOU KNOW YOU ARE BLEEDING?"
Time stands still, blood continues to ooze.

"F-ing, yes," I say to myself, trying to ignore the old bird behind me.

Meanwhile, checker folks to the left and right stop checking. Everyone looks--not at me--but at my hand and the bloody handle of my shopping cart.

"It's nothing," I announce, "must have brushed it against the cart."

The oldest cashier swivels her grey locks toward me and demands an answer, "This happened while you were here, in our store?".

"Maybe, not sure, but it's okay. Hey, can I press the debit button now?"

And it WAS okay for a while more. Then the elderly contemporary cashier says,
"There are sanitary wipes two aisles down by the exit," with a tone that basically said, "Get The Hell Out of here, you AIDS-ridden, BLEEDING OLD MAN!"

"Yes, I know where the wipes are and I will certainly take care of this cart before I leave."
I depart accompanied by the sweetest, cutest, most chirpy high school girl I could ever have imagined in my most prurient past.

"Don't worry about it," she says, "I'll take care of it." I'm so grateful that I want to squeeze her, uh, little cheeks.

And as we approach the wipe down station I tell her, "No, I'll take care of it. I made this mess," and proceed to wipe down the bloody handle, smiling back at her brighter than white teeth. 


"Everybody is so worried about AIDS these days," I tell her, as if this is normal small talk with a Bambi supermarket girl, "No reason you should have do this."

I continue mopping up the mess and vow henceforth to eliminate the morning aspirin that would supposedly keep me from stroking out and becoming more the that feeb I am.

So I allow Miss USA teenager to roll my cart to the back of my car. But before she could escape, it actually got worse. 

The concerned geezer at the check stand had tailed me to the parking lot. Asteen helper was assisting with my groceries, he came up and got into my face.


"What part of the cart caused your bleeding?"

Was this guy a retired accident lawyer?

I recoiled from his prehistoric breath and replied with wit, "What?"
(Well, what I wanted to do right then was swivel him around and inflict two death-dealing blows to his ancient kidneys).

But I answered with my best version of de truth, whatever that is.
"Well you know how it is when you're old, right? Just a small touch on our non-elastic skin and we bleed like a fire hydrant, right?"

"Oh yeah!" he says after a moment and treats me to a view of his bruised, hemorrhaged arm.

Nice, I think, being old just doesn't get any better than this.
 
Eventually, I remember how to open my car door and watch the obviously traumatized teen retreat back to the store.


I really do love my wife and at that moment was very anxious to get back to where we enjoy our mutual ability to ignore the effects of aging. 

And I resolve henceforth to always carry band-aids in my wallet, where I once hopefully carried condoms.


But now "it is what it is".


Not what it was.
Written on my birthday, June 14th, 2018.