Dumb As A Bag of Rocks

I really thought I would be just fine today. Let me fill you in on my dementia.

Had the surgery yesterday and felt okay. The leg was stiff to be sure, but nothing I couldn't handle. I thought of my brother, John, and how he got right up and headed to work. I was going to match the toughness.

Uh, no.

Pretty sore. And that's okay, but its the sense, or lack of sense that bothers me the most and I'm sure that a psychiatrist can have a field day with why I feel I have to whip the world every single day.

I mean there has to be something wrong there, right? Somewhere along the way someone messed me up. I know a lot of others that would love the fact that they can sit under a blanket and watch crap assembled on the dvr.

Not me!

So, there has to be a name for this particular disorder, right? There's a name for everything else, right?

But let me try to figure it out for myself. You see, my biggest problem with today was that my kids saw me unable to do what I am supposed to do for them. Sam's first question was, "Are you going to work today?"

I told him that I had one meeting that I had to go to in the afternoon.

"Thats sort of stupid," he said.
"Probably," I answered. "But sometimes you have to do really tough things."

And I'm not playing hero. I am just following the example my Dad set. When things were too tough for everybody else they were just right for him.

Even if suffering through was the exact wrong decision.

Dumber than a bag of rocks.