The Mule
Having my nightly after dinner conversation with one of the two individuals that really listen to me:
"Paris," I said. "The mule is on his last legs, and there's still a bunch of people on his back."
Paris offered a look of utter confusion, but at least she was wagging her tail.
And I'm not alone. Lots of tired people running around. It seems that everyone I talk to is flat-out at work. 10, 12, 14 hours...really getting after it.
I, at least, have a job that gets me outside. The sites change too so no two days are ever alike. I can't imagine a guy on a line somewhere, or even someone who reports to an office each day.
They'd find the mule hanging from the rafters.
Yet on Monday, for the first time in my adult life, I paused...in fear. Let me set the scene.
I had climbed a ladder to a rooftop area. Going up isn't troublesome. It just takes a bit of time. Thankfully there weren't any young bastards around to say something cute like:
"Get up there old man."
At the top, I looked around. I traded insults with a group of people who are jealous of the 27-time World Champion Yankees, and I made a couple of suggestions. Then I turned around and was face-to-face...
...with the ladder.
I would have to turn on the wall, lower my bum leg onto the ladder first and then head down. I'd made the move a thousand times in the last hundred days, but suddenly I was scared. My hip was shaking with such a task late last week.
I looked down. 40 feet. The ground looked hard.
The guys in the crew were looking at me. I played it off. I grabbed my phone and held it to my ear. I walked to solid ground, finished my fake call, and then checked my email, my Facebook and the starting pitchers for the week.
What the hell is the matter with you? I asked myself.
Then I walked to the ladder, spun, caught the rungs and headed down.
"Hurry up, old man," one of the guys called from above.
I gave him the audible version of the finger.
And I suppose that is what prompted my confession to the dog.
"Suck it up," she just said.
"Suck it up and tough it out and do the best you can."
Stupid dog.
"Paris," I said. "The mule is on his last legs, and there's still a bunch of people on his back."
Paris offered a look of utter confusion, but at least she was wagging her tail.
And I'm not alone. Lots of tired people running around. It seems that everyone I talk to is flat-out at work. 10, 12, 14 hours...really getting after it.
I, at least, have a job that gets me outside. The sites change too so no two days are ever alike. I can't imagine a guy on a line somewhere, or even someone who reports to an office each day.
They'd find the mule hanging from the rafters.
Yet on Monday, for the first time in my adult life, I paused...in fear. Let me set the scene.
I had climbed a ladder to a rooftop area. Going up isn't troublesome. It just takes a bit of time. Thankfully there weren't any young bastards around to say something cute like:
"Get up there old man."
At the top, I looked around. I traded insults with a group of people who are jealous of the 27-time World Champion Yankees, and I made a couple of suggestions. Then I turned around and was face-to-face...
...with the ladder.
I would have to turn on the wall, lower my bum leg onto the ladder first and then head down. I'd made the move a thousand times in the last hundred days, but suddenly I was scared. My hip was shaking with such a task late last week.
I looked down. 40 feet. The ground looked hard.
The guys in the crew were looking at me. I played it off. I grabbed my phone and held it to my ear. I walked to solid ground, finished my fake call, and then checked my email, my Facebook and the starting pitchers for the week.
What the hell is the matter with you? I asked myself.
Then I walked to the ladder, spun, caught the rungs and headed down.
"Hurry up, old man," one of the guys called from above.
I gave him the audible version of the finger.
And I suppose that is what prompted my confession to the dog.
"Suck it up," she just said.
"Suck it up and tough it out and do the best you can."
Stupid dog.
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