Mañana Blues

When I retired a year ago, I volunteered at the Raptor Refuge. I also signed up for theater classes and auditioned for roles.

But four months ago, nerves in my neck revolted. Unable to lift a raptor onto my gauntlet, I spent less time there. My classes ended, and roles were scarce.

I settled into a sedentary existence. I watched all of “Schitt’s Creek.” I read the “Dresden Files.” I relished Facebook’s mind candy.

I grew comfortable in my loss of self-respect. My housekeeping was lax. I slept in, napped daily, delayed showering until late. Whatever could be postponed, was.

Social interactions also declined. I went out only for VA appointments, Walmart groceries and the disposal of cat dung. Use of nicotine and vodka grew.

Perhaps I can blame pain and the VA, or rage against circumstances. But like the lost soul in Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville,” “It’s my own damn fault.”

So now I’m out and about. Re-engaging as best I can.

Yet to paraphrase Mark Twain, “Never put off until tomorrow what you can delay until the day after.”