Winter Fatigue

Or is it just Fourth Quarter Fatigue. The defense has been out on the field for most of the past three quarters while the offense has been bumbling and fumbling about for what seems like ages. That's the way the game goes or so it seems, today.

M's parents (maybe mine, as well) used to complain -- Hell! It's Classical -- that we didn't visit enough. We'd explain that life was busy ... raising the kids ... working ... writing ... and they, of course, were always welcome to drive down the 300 miles from New England to visit. Maybe the Last Quarter is about discovery: discovering what your parents meant when you were in the first three quarters. Cutting to the chase: Old People get tired.

Yesterday, one of my kids arranged for his daughter, his wife, two of his kid-sister's kids, and M to go see an on-ice version of Frozen, his daughter's best-thing-ever. It was simple enough. I was to drive M and the two older kids to his home and they'd all get down to the arena where the festivities would occur. And that's what the tired Old Farts did.

Old folks get tired. M was tired and walking with a limp from her right knee. I was tired, too. I drove downtown and found a parking garage that was designed for people with full vision. Tight little corners and tighter parking spots. The celebrants took an Uber down to the venue and I and 48 year old son walked a mile to a deli to make certain that my cholesterol doesn't get too low. We ate too much and walked back. It was now 3:00 pm and time for a rest or a nap. I decided to go home and do some writing that takes me roughly twice as long as it once did. Ugh!

M made it home and the twins were picked up by their parents. We looked around. GuntherDog was doing his typical kvetch as he gets on and off the couch he once jumped over and PrettyGirlFreud the Cat was lying inert on a floor heat-register. I recalled that on my trek back from downtown, I was listening to a song about an orphan who calls out to his Mother and Father. "I'm becoming a man, today. And as you look down from Heaven, I want you to know that my Sister and I are leading good lives." I had it on "repeat."

So:

"Mom, Dad ... Now that M and I are walking tilted, I want you to know that I finally get it. Sorry about not getting it, sooner. Next week on Sunday, we'll be driving up and back the 100 miles each way to see our two somewhat-distant grandkids, two of your many Great-grandkids. While up there, I hope Gunther's aging prostate allows him to keep it in, that Pretty Girl doesn't get pissed about being left alone with GrumpyGunther, and that M and I arrive home safely that evening full of joy, as we plop down half dead in our beds."

Oh, and ...

"Hey, Kids ... If we don't show up, sorry ... text but don't call: you might disturb our nap. Ach du lieber!"