Karma with Both Barrels Loaded

Certainly, getting older has its bright side.  Five percent off of my total bill at the grocery store on Wednesdays.  Two dollars off on haircuts.  AARP discounts at hotels.  People offering me their seats on a crowded bus (kidding).  People holding the door open for me as if to say ‘age before beauty’ (not kidding).  But so much for the bright side. 

Let’s take a look on the other side. 

I’ll be the first to admit my memory isn’t what it used to be.  I find myself drawing a blank when asked my wife Cindy’s social security number, a number I’ve known like the back of my hand since our senior year in high school.    Someone I haven’t seen in several years is no longer ‘Yolanda.’  Rather, she is now ‘the lady that used to work in packing…first name starts with a ‘Y’…three syllables.’   

I’ll also be the first to admit I’m prone to doing absent-minded things I never thought possible.  Walking around the house looking for the car keys I’m holding in my left hand.  Wondering where I set my drink down only to finally realize I never had a drink in the first place.   

Finally, I’ll be the first to admit that what used to be simple ain’t so simple any more.  Here’s a good example: Walking up and down stairs.  I now use the handrail—religiously—not so much to teach my grandson the importance of ‘safety first,’ but rather so I don’t fall (and yes, I’ve been known to fall upstairs).  If I carry anything in my arms I need to have both feet on each step before proceeding to the next one.  Sometimes—inexplicably and without warning, I ‘lose track’ of which step I’m on.  (Believe me: If I could explain this better I would.  You might want to ask someone you know nearer my age for clarification because I have a hunch they may be facing the same challenge.)

I knew this day was coming.  I’m going to go out on a very short limb and call it karma: Karma for giving my friend Al such a hard time during our friendship and sharing similar components of his life with the world in many (‘many’ being the grandest of understatements) of my articles, stories and books over the years.  Al’s antics and quotes have become infamous to the point it would be fair to refer to me as the Colonel to Al’s Elvis.  From his ‘put me down for a turd’ quote at Badwater to eating potpourri out of a glass bowl at a party to wearing a cat sweater on his head for a cold winter run, Al now has quite the reputation in the running community.

All these years I knew I was playing with fire and that one day karma would be calling.            

Well, I’m here to tell you last weekend karma came calling.  Loudly, as a matter of fact and with both barrels loaded.

After an afternoon watching college football in the Georgia Dome and consuming a variety of things certainly not recommended by a doctor Cindy and I—along with two of our friends went to an Italian restaurant in close proximity to the Fox Theater in downtown Atlanta.  You know the type; one of those hoity-toity restaurants where it takes less time to eat the special than it does for the waiter to tell you what it is.  Cindy happened to order the special (grouper, I believe) and I promise you I could have fit her entire meal in the palm of my hand.

After dinner I went to the back of the restaurant to find the men’s room.  At the end of a long, dark hall were two doors.  On the door to my right was a sign with the word ‘uomini.’  On the door to my left was a sign with the word ‘donne.’  Beneath both words was a caricature that didn’t do me any good because they were both much too small for me to see without a pair of 2.5 reading glasses that I don’t usually take to the men’s room with me. Figuring ‘donne’ was the more masculine word of the two (After all, isn’t that the name of one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?  They’re all guys!) I went in the restroom to my left.  The restroom was virtually pitch black with the exception of a couple of nightlights, the one in the far stall much brighter than the others that drew me like a moth to a flame.  I was in and out in less than a minute.     

When I returned to the table Cindy asked me where the restrooms were and I pointed to the long, dark hall.  Five minutes later she returned and said ‘you’ll never believe what just happened.’  She went on to tell me she was in a stall when she heard someone using a urinal and realized she was actually in the men’s restroom.  Then it dawned on me.  ‘Which restroom did you use?’  ‘Uomini,’ she replied.  Somehow both of us—totally independent of one another—had not only guessed at but went ahead and used the wrong restroom.  Fortunately neither of us was ‘caught in the act’ which is a good thing because it would have totally humiliated Cindy.  Me?  I couldn’t have cared less.

After all, sh*t happens.  Figuratively speaking, of course.

Even if in both of these instances it didn’t.  Not literally, anyway.     

I can practically feel Al smiling right about now.