O-Bloody, Ob-La-Da

I awoke about 7am, by the time the sun had already arisen. My Benefactrix, to whom I will henceforth refer as Martha, was just pulling her shimmy over her head in the routine preparation to face the impending workday. This is a weekday ritual that is, for me as a spectator, something akin to watching boys dress in a locker room. Once upon a time, I was a boy in a locker room gearing up to face the competition outside and privy to the systematic pre-game skeining ritual. I vaguely recall now there was a spiritual sacredness to the operation incanting a vibration inside an invisible, infinite stone sanctuary. Thoughts within this sanctuary banished concerns from the outside world with each piece of gear, assembled outer layers to sheath us at the center of a mental onion. The best of us invested ourselves in stoic silence as we donned our armour raiment and looked forward to the events on the field where we would meet and shape our destiny. As a boy, I did this unconsciously. I played the position of centreman in ice hockey and turned over in my mind inventive ways to win the draw, and visualized moments of potential glory. I remember that I was a very good centreman, controlling the puck more times than losing it. I hated losing and took out my frustration abusively on my hockey stick at the end of a poorly played game. I remember being fiercely committed to taking the puck away from my opponent by attacking his initiative. I also recall my concern for personal safety. I was a small build, weighing about 60 pounds (27 Kg) at the time, so I thought of ways to avoid body checks and inflict physical damage on my would be tormentors. Preparing to address the coming challenges through dressing the soul is a symbolic as well as a practical matter to me, and quiet moments I took into my later life as an adult. Mulling over what my day ahead might look like would begin as I openned my eyes in the hot shower and carry though as I garbed myself. Of course, I do not have to do that now as a kept man but I do have my lapses when I fall back into old habits. As I watched Martha dress in her careless manner I could see that 7am was the time the game had ended with a loss for her team in the lockers.

Sometimes I am awake for this part of the ritual and sometimes I am not. Generally the whole practice goes unnoticed by me. I cart myself over to the computer, fire it up, pad to the toilet, and then see Martha off like a faithful pet. I have foregone my morning pattern to shower these days, preferring to dry from the greasiness of night sweats until afternoon or return to bed, sometimes going whole days without either a shower or a shave.

I shave once a week now, on the day I go to Toastmasters. Toastmaster meetings are a recent addition to my life's siesta, and I do expect to be halfway through my first certificate in 3 months - a rapid pace for this region of the world where telephones that are answered after the caller has forgotten the purpose of his call but just before he hangs up are considered speedy.