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Small Changes

Now and then we are reminded of how extraordinarily fortunate we are.  In my case, I am employed and my children are alive and relatively well, as are my grandchildren.  I have a roof over my head and food to eat.  Literally too much food.

I take for granted such fundamental things as safety.  Yes, there is always a chance of personal disaster, of becoming a victim.  But it’s a matter of numbers.  In a suburban apartment the likelihood of being a victim is fairly low – especially when compared to the young men and women in other parts of the world.  Were I living in Saudi Arabia, Iran or other Muslim countries I would not be working – or driving, or any of the other acts of independence I rarely stop to consider.  Were my grandchildren living in Uganda, there is a strong chance they could be impressed as child soldiers, forced to kill and to be killed on the whims of a monster.  Were my children living in many parts of the world they might themselves starve to death while on a near-hopeless march in hopes of finding sustenance for their families.

Were we living in Mexico – or even visiting there – nobody would be safe from the drug gangs, where killing people is an equivalent sport to the US deer hunting season.

In short, I’m damned lucky – iffy car, knee grief and all.

The past week or so I’ve been dragging my ass bigtime and still feeling queasy and ickish.  My doctor put me on bp meds – not sure if the change to my digestive system is related or coincidental.  Not aware of nausea as an associated side effect, nor any of the other gastronomic indignities of the past few days.  Also tending to discount the meds because the daughter and spousal units each did their turn with similar experiences, though spousal unit got off ridiculously easy.

Otherwise just continuing to plod away.  Keeping my fingers crossed that I can retire some more bills as time goes on, and that the car holds together a bit longer.  I thought last year it was history and thought a month ago it was also doomed, but the thing’s still rolling along.  It may yet outlast me.

Likewise thought the iPhone had kicked the bucket; turned out the charger may be faulty.  Will be watching it like a hawk over the next few days and take ‘er in while still under warranty.  Unlike Poolie, I haven’t given her a name yet.  In general I don’t anthropomorphize my machinery, though I did once have a car I named Beulah.

That’ll do for tonight.  I’m going to curl up with Morgan Freeman – love Through the Wormhole – and knowing me I’ll be asleep before they finish the opening credits.

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