Right off the bat, firing an NRA salvo at CR2S’ personal Canons of Journalism: Try not to complain about ills, personal or otherwise.

Well folks, I feel great this morning except a bit worn and bushed. Which doesn’t make much sense since I had the soundest sleep in eons. Turned out the lights at 12:30, only a single trek to the bathroom followed, then back to zzzzzs until 6:24 a.m. Never so much with so little interruption since a hospital knockout pill some years ago. And no “O” visit either.

The question is quality over quantity. Had an extremely realistic dream about the day I wore my first long-sleeved, collared white shirt. So weird.

One of my more common dreams, nightmare actually, also reaches way back in history. It has me in strange surroundings trying to remember where I parked my car. This dreammare pops up with unsettling regularity; sometimes in a hotel where the elevator won’t stop on my floor or on a freeway that has no off-ramp. Figure those out in your spare time.

As a somnambulistic insomniac, and every oddball “ism” in between, I’ve broached the subject of dreaming with a whole slew of people over the years. It’s an intriguing topic (to me) but almost everyone else is made uncomfortable, as if I’m intruding into off-limits territory. Why are people hesitant to share their nocturnal adventures? And then, of course, there are those who aren’t bothered by late-night or early-morning illusions. How lucky they don’t know they are.

=  *  =

An obvious starting point to solving why this state of lethargy would be retracing activities of the day before. [In case you’ve forgotten, we were discussing my being tired and feeling out of sorts.]

I was prepared for an imposing challenge upon awakening: I had to address a meeting of Gardena-based Continuing Education of Widows (an odd but provocative name). The appearance called for fresh clothes, shoes and socks; none of that sneakers and Dockers stuff. Starting at 10 a.m., I asked an audience of 50-plus 80-plusers to listen to my story of “The O-bah-keh of Keiro Retirement Home.” At mid-lecture, during a Q&A session, I was confronted by more questions regarding daily life at KRH than the status of Haruko “O” and the mystery of the persistent tap tap taps. [If word seeps back to Boyle Avenue that the newly appointed Food Committee chairman voiced displeasure about the daily menu, the quote that will be missing is, “I was only kidding.”]

The CEW, which also includes widowers, is a courteous and friendly bunch; just more interested in the amenities of KRH than the phantom ghost, I guess. Had a great lunch (short ribs) at Bob’s new Hawaiian eatery on Western (a great upgrade from the old Vermont location). Only drawback was the sudden onset of leg cramps. [Nothing compared to the brain cramp of Gardena’s beleaguered mayor, allegedly involved in the strange sojourn of bullet-proof vests going from L.A. County Sheriff’s Department to Gardena to Cambodia.]

Returning home later to a less than overwhelming supper (just kidding #2), I looked forward to a sumptuous In-N-Out cheeseburger and watching grandson Cody play in a second-round CIF Section Five (winning) playoff game. Even with 8-minute quarters and a new gymnasium, plastic bleacher seats wreak havoc on lower lumbars 4 and 5. Back to the abode by 9:40, I’m the last sign-in for the evening. So much for night life hereabouts.

Despite the noon leg cramps and evening back disorder, I crawl into bed pleased with the day’s activity; hopeful the morrow might be as enjoyable. There is definite pleasure in being “outside” once in a while.

=  *  =

Well, so much for hope. A good night’s sleep fails to ease the physical woes. At this stage, I guess one shouldn’t expect the bounce-back theorem to work any more. So I wake up with an aching back and a leg that threatens to tie up in a nonce. Oh well, at least an asteroid didn’t join me in bed.

So today I’m having sanma-shio from Otomi-san, instead of tofu dengaku in the mess hall, er, dining room. Whether that eases my groin pain is questionable, but I’m certain it will ease a hunger pang. Bon appetit.


W.T. Wimpy Hiroto can be reached at Opinions expressed in this column are not necessarily those of The Rafu Shimpo.


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