Saturday, October 11, 2014

Truth Be Told

Once upon a time, back in the day, long ago-- when everybody was getting in touch with himself, or herself, while I was, of course, eager as always to touch someone other than myself,  I thought to myself, and out loud:  "What happens if, after making all that effort, spending all that time and money, you get in touch with yourself and you don't particularly like the way it, or you, feel(s)?"

Is it possible that you can revert, so to speak, to not being in touch with yourself? Probably.  But look at all the time wasted.  So why risk it?  What's the point?

Suppose, just suppose I happened to be some self-aggrandizing ego-centric high-powered highly performing sociopath and I go to one of these retreats in California where sunshine and the St. Andreas fault wage a never-ending battle for possession of daily life?  And there among the surf and sand and temblors I "get in touch"? Exactly what is it I think I'm going to be touching?  And more importantly, how can I get it off me?

Fortunately, I don't have that problem.  I don't really overvalue myself enough to be self-aggrandizing; as for high-performance? Do us a favor.....

At core I'm a sluggard; a person who wants nothing so much as to spend day after day near the sea under one or more of those umbrellas with the beautiful navy-blue crests, logos of the restaurants that populate the beaches of Nice.

If I had, or had had the money, I would be, would have been the laziest man in history-- perfectly happy to regard rolling over twice in a single ten hour period as an aerobic workout.  And rolling over three times?  "Feel the burn"?  I wouldn't make that mistake again, believe me.

I could be perfectly happy turning my skin  slightly more brown and less supple than the belt holding my white linen trousers, which of course, I only wear to and from my perfectly appointed chaise lounge.

I would be happy, actually disbelieving of my good fortune, to only need to raise a hand, and not even the whole hand-- maybe just two fingers-- and obtain a towel, another glass of wine, another kilogram of mussels (with frites).

In fact, provided somebody gave me a blanket, I wouldn't budge from the spot (except for the necessary reasons). 

When it rained?  I'd get wet.

All in all, it's my good fortune that I have never had the money to get in touch with the real idle rich me, which me has always been too lazy to make an extended appearance.

October 11, 2014

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