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"It seems like you're not all there," said my step-daughter Karen. I had picked her at the auto agency where she had left her car for its oil change. When we arrived at the house, I asked her about her car when I remembered I had collected it outside the repair shop.

"I already told you," she tells me again.

Is my mind fraying at the edges? Am I taking too much Xanax and numbing my brain? My body aches. I fight shortness of breath. If I'm breaking down physically, should I assume that I'm breaking down mentally?

Or do I have too much bullshit in my head? 

Listening to Trump and living in fear of COVID are enough for one platter, but I'm in search of my next creative expression and there is the daily work of maintaining the blog. I have people in my life who require energy. There are the physical workouts and the intellectual pursuits. 

It's too much.

As they say: Youth is wasted on the young. I feel like I'm just starting, but I'll never get out of the blocks. Like a baby in the womb, I'm returning to the womb. The space is shrinking. There are 36 days until the national, state and local elections. They are inspiring me to write The Coronavirus Chronicles memoir, but I'm tired of the daily grind. Believing that I may have something unique inspires me to keep churning out the copy.

I need one milligram of Xanax right now. I'm edgy. When my nerves begin to torment me, I sense the pressure in my stomach and it radiates to my chest and to my head. I may have drunk more wine than I should have last night watching the evening game. Alcohol doesn't come without a price and it demands a stiff payment the following morning.

I have been writing all day. I started at seven in the morning. There were a few breaks for lunch and a chore, but it's after five and I'm typing. I hadn't planned this piece except I had an hour to kill before I had to embark on another family errand and Karen's remark struck a chord. The creative inspiration rises from a thousand sources. I must have several muses responsible for me to keep pumping out the prose.

Though I appear to be in shape, I weighed 150 pounds when I was 30 and as I near 70 I tip the scales at 210. Don't think I'm not laboring on the tennis courts. I'm trying to master a game in which I exert limited movement. In order to achieve that goal, I have to improve my serve and my backhand. There remains the thrill of cleanly stroking the ball, but that ain't gonna happen if I have to chase balls whacked down the line. I'm no different than a goalie who concedes the penalty if it's struck in either corner of the net.

My hearing is deteriorating. I notice it most when I reprimand someone for not speaking loud enough or mumbling. My eye sight is even more atrocious. It grows cloudier by the day. These one-dollar glasses with the magnified lenses are proving that I'm getting the product for which I'm paying. I live with this reality without seeking medical help. If I lose my sense of taste and smell, I'll seek out Dr. Pangloss' help and take a COVID test. 

"It seems like you're not all there" echoes in my mind. As I have explained, I am losing it, but it's in small pieces, not chunks. Dropped for the automatic eight-count with cancer or a stroke or a heart attack, I'll evaluate the quality of my life and consider serious options. If I ain't got game, if I've lost my mojo, it may be time to throw the towel into the ring.

In the meantime, I have more than enough Xanax to sustain me through the presidential election as well as the local contests. Afterwards, I'll need at least another three months to finish The Coronavirus Chronicles. It could be my greatest work ever, so I don't want to fail to give the endeavor 110%.

I like to think that I could have been champ, but that delusion has long since vanished. There isn't even one big fight left in me. I spar for a few minutes and I'm winded. I can't throw a dozen punches without my knuckles aching for a week, but this is the truth of the matter. I am not all there because I am all here. I tune out most everyone these days. I exist within my own shell. I inhabit my own world. I could be pretentious and brag that I was a cockroach, but I am not the size of an ant. I'm waiting to be crushed when I least expect it. 

I learned a long time ago that I was meaningless. At best I have elicited a chuckle or two and stuck around long enough to push my sons out of the nest when it was time to fly and earn their own worms. But I don't take myself seriously. We're all nobodies. We're coagulated dust. But that realization hasn't diminished my love for the beauty of existence.

I'm not all there. But there is this one temporary consolation: I'm still here. 

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