By Mark Faris “The Coast Bard”
As yours truly continues to explore the wonder years (that magical time triggered by the Big FiveOh), It becomes increasing apparent I am placing limitations on unnecessary physical exertion.
Some of it is subconscious. Sort of a survival instinct. Some is intentional.
For instance, just the other day, en route to part-time work as demonic exorcist to the stars, I tossed some trash into a local dumpster and inadvertently let slip a ziplock bag I had packed for lunch.
It contained a disappointing tangle of linguini and meatballs I’d prepared the previous night. And although the sloppy repast wasn’t exactly three-star, it still was edible and would serve to eliminate the expense and inconvenience of ordering to-go grub. Which isn’t always easy in the exorcism biz.
Demons are not amenable to lunch breaks, quiet time or accordion recitals. And so much more, for that matter.
After requisite I-can’t-believe-I-did-that cussing, spitting, head-shaking, eye-rolling and foot-stomping, I stared deeply into the stinking dumpster abyss and realized considerable acrobatic skill would be required to retrieve that packet of pasta and piquant orbs.
In more youthful years, I may…