Jun 3, 2005

It's all in your head

And your lower back, and your knees that sound like castanets when you climb stairs or get up from a squat.

Age. Or more specifically, physical age vs mental age. I guess when you get out of training pants you start asking yourself things like "Am I getting old?" and "Why does my body hurt in the mornings?" and "Where's my applesauce? Who are you people? Where's my regular nurse?"

I often curse the day the first proto-man decided to go ahead and use that bulging forehead for something other than a handy coconut opener and turned on the self-consciousness circuit, thereby saddling himself and every one of his billions of descendants with neuroses, crises of self doubt, and headaches. Way to go, Ugh. I appreciate that, we all do.

But, no use crying over spilt grey cells, is there. We've now got a mind that spends it's entire day racing backward and forward across the years, from the day you were too ashamed to raise your hand in class and decided that you'd pee just a little bit to take the pressure off, all the way to the day that you'll be lying in a nursing home bed and be too obstinate to raise your hand to pee so you just make a mess for the day nurse to clean up, and then the nurse will be further inclined to return the favor by peeing in your tuna hot-melt.

I was asked just a few days ago how old I felt, mentally, and without even thinking about it I replied "About 25." You'd have to cut me in half and count my rings to see how old I really am, or maybe just check my Profile, I think I was foolish enough to put my year of birth in there, but if you know me in person you'd probably be inclined to say that I act about 12 most times, and mid 20's otherwise. At least I'd like to think that. And of course those of you who have seen me after a hard day's physical labor will likely tell me that I act about 95, and strangely enough on those days I DO feel like I'm about 95.

The hooman mine is a wunnerful thing indeedy. So powerful, and we haven't even scratched the surface (so to speak) of it's ability. Nor do hardly any of us use it to it's full potential, but that's another post. It affects us in thousands of tiny ways, and we affect it in turn. And mine has decided to let the events of the morning sidetrack me into a discussion of kitty rescue rather than a high-brow discussion of thought and it's processes, it seems.

See, Tall, Grande and Venti have all gotten to the age that they've decided they are Velcro Kitties. They climb everything, and being on a patio they have ample screen to climb. Well, they used to be content with climbing to the foot-and-a-half-height beam out there, where they'd get stuck and scream and holler for help. Then they got used to that and started heading up toward the four-and-a-half-foot ledge, where they'd get stuck and holler for help. Well, being Big Kitties now, they've decided that the only goal in life is to climb all the way up to the seven foot roofline, where there's a slot for the soffitt to breathe, and which will juuuust fit a determined Klimbing Kitty.

This morning I heard two little voices calling, and found Tall and Venti jammed into those little soffitt spaces, two little tabby faces staring out at the 'suddenly seven feet in the air' drop to the patio below. Rescue was easy, scruffing them and pulling them to my chest for some comfort, but then not five minutes later I hear Grande screaming.

Now, keep in mind that Grande does not take rescue well. Grande does not take ANYTHING well. Grande does not care for people yet, and is proving to be the hardest to socialise. And Grande, when I had him scruffed and half-way out into the air began screaming like a banshee who just got it's fingers slammed in a car door, which woke up the entire house and energised the five INSIDE kitties to a state of ferocity, and when I finally had Grande free and on my chest to calm him he promptly climbed my shoulder and was making his way down my back while I got back to the patio floor. He leapt off and ran away into a corner immediately, to tell tales of my ferocity and his daring-do.

Ungrateful little brat.

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