I Wonder

Wondering is what I do, especially since I retired. I raise a lot of questions and actually get very few answers. But wondering is my hobby, my pastime and because it can be an all day job, I get started early.

After my morning shower wakes me up, I’m appalled at the sight of the dismal looking apparition in the misted mirror. Even through squinting eyes, I can see the physical toll that the passing years reflect and I wonder. I wonder whether I’ll be able, once more, to shed the unwelcome overnight disguise and return to some semblance of what used to be my true self.

I shave, carefully; apply cologne; gargle mouthwash; massage my head with an application of colour restorer; and I glide my comb easily through the thinning gray-white hair. As I slip my eyeglasses over my ears, I’m reminded that I need a new battery in my hearing aid.

The mirror has cleared and I do a second inspection. I nod, in conceited appreciation of the Jimmy Carter smile that looks back at me, while the fresh taste of those gleaming dentures, after their overnight bath, has my mouth tingling.

Now, with many traces of the inexorable degeneration less obvious, I’m more content with what I see and I wonder how it is that I can be so lucky. I’m lucky, certainly, that I can continue to patch up my physical appearance to look relatively human. But I’m lucky, also, that my mind has remained active and alert without its need for superficial maintenance or more serious repairs. What would I have done if it had been my mind that had thinned or whitened or if it had needed a shave, an overnight soaking, or a battery? I probably would not have been able to wonder about things any more. That thought leads me to consider what will I do when my brain finally does need to be revitalized? And will I recognize the advance signs? I wonder.

The kitchen radio is playing a modern song, as I start breakfast, but I can’t, for the life of me, understand one word being sung. Maybe it’s just as well, because I’m told I wouldn’t like the lyrics anyway. But I wonder what has happened to our music, our singers? Is it just me? Is it the generation gap? It can’t be my ears, surely, what with the new battery and all.

I pour milk over my cereal and wonder when did they start making Shredded Wheat Biscuits so small. Two of them fit easily into my bowl now. They didn’t before.

I start reading my morning paper and I wonder when did it become so narrow and short? More importantly when did the type become so small? Do I need new glasses?

The kettle is boiling and I find that I must open a new package of tea. I cringe as I remember previous frustrating experiences, trying to undo the plastic wrapping. I wonder if anyone can truly understand the enormous strength of this thin material. The sealed box resists all efforts short of TNT to get at the contents. It makes you wonder if the machine operator who wrapped the box is gloating about the frustration he causes? Then as I dig and claw (and cuss), suddenly and for no apparent reason, the plastic packaging will split wide open. Has it happened to you? Go figure.

As I start to pour my tea, someone says, “Does this milk taste sour to you?” It still looks virgin white, cold and inviting but immediately it has lost its appeal. If it happened to you, could you then use the suspected milk? I can’t and I wonder about how receptive our minds can be to the least suggestion.

As I sip my black, ‘unmilked’ tea, I remember, with distaste, that I must telephone a particular government office before I go out this morning. I cringe to think of what I can expect. I wonder why, I and other rational people tolerate both the affront to our dignity and the waste of time caused by the ‘new-wave-switchboards of government offices and large corporations. I dread entering that adventure-land of bureaucracy; Mother Bell’s very own Twilight Zone, where a robot takes control and we press buttons for him, on command. His message, programmed to be repeated 10 or more times, advises in effect, “Just wait and our representatives will get around to you . . . someday.” Between messages, while we endure the dreadful music (mercifully without lyrics), are those fingernail-filing, ubiquitous representatives, chuckling to themselves about the sheepish fish that they’ve got waiting on their line? I wonder.

I finally hang up and go out into the drizzle. The forecaster had promised good weather for today and that’s why I washed the car. What a mess! Does it always rain after you wash your car? That’s what people say. Is it true? Probably not, but . . . sometimes I wonder. Then in my wondering, I might say to myself, suppose it was true? Would it follow that in areas of the country that are experiencing a drought, the natives are driving around in unwashed cars? I wonder.

As I get into the car, I’m reminded of the zany TV comedian, Gallagher. He asks, “Why do we park in a driveway and drive on a parkway?” Makes me wonder.

I pass a work crew and again I wonder. Have you ever noticed that when one department of the city paves a street, making it a pleasure to drive on, workers of another department follow along within weeks to dig up parts of it? Much later, when they get around to repairing those parts, why do they always leave either a big depression in the pavement or a manhole cover sticking up? I wonder.

Why do the turning signals on so many cars fail to work? Is it faulty equipment or is it perhaps because of lazy and inconsiderate drivers. I wonder about that too... but I don’t wonder about it very much.

Going by the country club, I watch a golfer hit an extremely long drive and I wonder about golf balls. The ones I use nowadays don’t seem to go nearly as far as they used to. I wonder why that is?

I’m getting into heavy traffic now and I wonder how best to cope with it. You have no doubt heard of Murphy’s Law and the Peter Principle but you are probably not aware of Maloney’s Maxim. It pertains to lane selection when you are driving on a busy multi-lane highway. I’ve noticed that whenever traffic is reduced to a crawl, for whatever reason, one lane will invariably move somewhat faster than the others. Maloney’s Maxim states that “when you identify the faster moving lane and manage to move over into it, all traffic in that lane will now come to a stop, and the lane you just left will start to flow normally.” Why does that happen? I wonder.

I eventually get to the supermarket and my visits there always generate many wonderings. For example, when the checkout computer is working right, the lines can move steadily. Why then, do people spoil the advantage of speedy recording and billing by holding up the line afterwards while digging through their purses for exact change? Makes me wonder.

Then too, why are some cash lanes called express? They never are. Why is it that so many shoppers cannot count to 8 or 12 or whatever number of purchases is specified for that particular lane? Why does the cashier accept a cheque or credit card as payment in a cash-only lane? I wonder why.

Parking lots at the malls have spots allocated to the physically impaired and these spots are well identified so that there is no doubt about their reserved nature. Why is it, then, that I see some of the most healthy specimens using these spots and nothing is ever done about it? I wonder.

Back home, with the groceries, I hear my wife scolding our grandson about having discarded a bread crust. Mothers, of course, eat crusts themselves and try to get others to do the same. Sometimes they use the martyr approach, or the starving children of Biafra routine, but mostly they use the promise of bad hair-day consequences. We’ve been traumatized for years with that threat. But it’s all been a fraud. After all, if mothers were right, why haven’t they all got the curly hair that they preached about? I wonder.

I wonder why wives and mothers have a segment of brain that is peculiar only to females; males simply do not have it. This unique area provides females, with the uncanny knack of always knowing when garbage day is. Steal them away and drop them off in unknown lands. Then as you settle down after a hard day of travelling with them, into far off Mesopotamia or Riviere de Loup, they’d still know. You’d hear your wife say, “It’s garbage day tomorrow and the blue box goes out too.” How does she always know? I wonder.

There are other wondrous things about wives and mothers. For instance how does my wife always know when it’s time for me to take my prescribed drugs and why does she always specify exactly where the pills are. It gets annoying to be reminded every time. I wonder why she does that? Perhaps it’s because of an incident a few months ago when I didn’t take my memory pills because I couldn’t remember where I had put them. Could that be the reason? I wonder.

It’s evening now and my head is spinning. I wonder if it’s because of the number and the variety of things that I wondered about today. I must admit that I do feel a little tired, physically and a little fuzzy, mentally. I suddenly realize that I’m back to where I was this morning, wondering about mind revitalizing. Batteries are not the answer but maybe in tomorrow’s world, minds themselves, will be somehow rechargeable. I wonder.