I spent some time this weekend watching an old pro try to limp along again and, when called on to perform a critical job, stagger through once more against tremendous odds.
Nope, not Peyton Manning. My alarm clock.
It seems that time has, literally, passed my alarm clock by. First, it starting failing to hold a radio station, which means that, nine times out of 10, I wake up to "Poltergeist"--like static instead of music. Then the glow in the dark clock option became significantly less glow-y and a lot more optional.
That means I often wake up in the middle of the night to discover that may be as close as I'm going to get to knowing what time it actually is. It's "middle of the night," or maybe "middle of the night thirty." "Middle of the night forty-five" at the latest.
The faceplate is in the process of falling off, which doesn't bother me too much, since I don't throw it or swat at it with the regularity I used to ever since I matured and became resigned to the fact that morning follows evening, all too closely for my tastes.
All of this I could put up with if it weren't for one small, teeny little, almost insignificant detail. The alarm has suddenly decided ... not to.
OK, that's perhaps not absolutely true. The alarm will sound. Just not all the time. And while I'm sure some people would welcome the adrenaline rush that comes with wondering if today is their lucky day (say, people with an occupation where attendance isn't somewhat mandatory), I for one think the phrase "alarm clock" conveys a certain level of expectation. Perhaps I'm being unreasonable as well as tardy.
In short, the prudent thing to do would be to find a station playing "Taps," and follow those mournful notes by pulling the plug and sending the alarm clock, which probably predates all of my children and perhaps even my marriage, to its well-deserved final rest. Or, more appropriately, snooze. Which doesn't work, either.
However, there's a personal "complication" (some would suggest "quirk" or "compulsion,") in all this. Because the alarm does what it's supposed to do, albeit unpredictably and only on occasion, it falls under my mental heading of "stuff that works some of the time." And that means I can't throw it away.
I've had the alarm clock for a long time, but it's not part of the family. It's a hunk of wires and plastic that is only marginally doing what it was signed on to do. A swift trip to the recycle center and it's on its way to being all or part of a rug, a soda bottle and the ignition system on a Buick, and the electronic Circle of Life continues.
It's just that I have a ridiculously hard time throwing stuff away -- or, more to the point, buying new stuff -- just because the old stuff has lost that "new stuff smell." Or quit working with any consistency. Either one.
Case in point: When the Lovely Mrs. Smith and I were first dating, I often wore a pair of tasseled loafers. They were fashionable (it was a long time ago), comfortable and were just about perfect, except for the quarter-sized hole in the sole of the right one.
Now, the sane among us would have gotten those shoes fixed or tossed them as soon as the hole was first noticed. What the sane among us would not have done is wander through shoe stores for a solid year, looking at loafers, trying them on, comparing styles and heft and, each time, putting the shoes back and wandering off. While, hopefully, avoiding water puddles. Guess which camp I'm in? The "soggy sock" camp.
I have a stainless steel coffee tumbler whose black paint has become so worn it looks like it might be zebra-striped. But, since it still actually keeps me from having to walk around with hot liquid cupped in my hands, it's got a home on the shelf.
I must have five pairs of running shoes, the padding of which is so worn down I might as well be jogging in flip flops. However, they're perfect for wearing when I mow the lawn. If I ever actually mowed the lawn.
Look, it's not like I'm a hoarder. There's lots of stuff I throw away. Typically, it's stuff I need, like receipts and forms marked "Do Not Throw Away On Penalty of Law." And maybe it's echoes of the Dust Bowl in my soul, but I just have a hard time chucking things if I haven't wrung out that last little bit of usefulness. At my age, I'm becoming a big believer in karma.
So, until the alarm just up and quits or the folks at my office start handing out ultimatums, I'll probably keep the old one. And maybe I just have to wiggle the wires or something. Probably just needs that.
Maybe I'm just odd. And perhaps I'm not alone. Last December, the Lovely Mrs. Smith and I celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary. Thirty years, virtually all of them good, and even the worst better than I had any right to expect.
Thankfully I'm not the only one around here who doesn't toss stuff just because it doesn't work the way it used to.
Commentary on 01/29/2016