Folks always told me that we tend to forget things as we grow older, but I outdid myself this week. I forgot a whole day.
You know how some days just have a different feel to them? I mean, for those of us who are of work on the Friday after Thanksgiving, it always feels like a Saturday, doesn't it? And sometimes a Saturday, if it follows a rare Friday holiday, might feel like a Sunday - except without church. And a wise man once told me that every day is Saturday to a dog - or a retired person.
Well, I suppose that's sort of what happened to me.
I didn't get to go to work Monday. My lovely wife, Lisa, recently underwent surgery to have a tumor removed from her breast. Monday morning we had an appointment with her doctor in Atlanta and got the good news that it was just a pesky little benign fibroid - another giant blessing to count before carving the turkey on Thursday.
We spent an inordinate amount of time in the doctor's office, of course, and by the time we got home the day was just about done. We ate supper, read a little bit - she's into some vampire series for adolescent girls, I had a new Nelson DeMille novel about mafia dons and the wealthy New Yorkers on Long Island's Gold Coast. We were pretty worn out from the stress of the day, and from the sleepless night before, so we captured "Boston Public" on TiVo and waited to the next night to eavesdrop on Denny Crane and Alan Shore's intimate Scotch-and-cigars balcony rendezvous and then turned in.
Needless to say, we spent a considerable amount of time thanking God for our good news before drifting off to sleep.
The next morning I groaned a little bit when the alarm went off, then went through my normal routine of walking the dog, reading the papers, drinking a couple of cups of strong coffee - cream and Sweet 'N' Low, thank you, in case you ever offer me a cup. Just the normal stuff. School was as uneventful as a day of school can be when we are about to turn 1,600 teenagers loose for five days. The evening was more typical stuff. We ate supper and read and watched a little television and wondered, together, what to get three practically grown children who have everything - or at least everything we can afford - for Christmas.
After watching the aforementioned conclusion to "Boston Legal," we turned in for the evening, excited about the fact that we didn't have to set the alarm because neither of us had any place to be the next day. Other than not setting the alarm clock, it was just a typical Monday. Except it wasn't. It was a Tuesday. See where this is going? Raise your hand if you've been there yourself.
Come on now! I know I'm not the only one.
The next morning I rolled out of bed at about 7 o'clock, which is late for me, and did the normal things I do every morning. I was convinced it was Tuesday - so much so that I grumbled and groused for an hour about how hard the crossword puzzle in the big city paper was. I work them every day, you see, and they start out really easy on Mondays and get progressively harder as the week goes on. I can normally work the first two puzzles of the week without even turning on my brain. Wednesday's puzzle requires actual thinking, and I sometimes have to enlist the aid of a dictionary on Thursday. I don't even attempt Friday's puzzle.
Anyway, Wednesday morning's puzzle was hard for a Tuesday - I hope you are able to follow all this - and I was a bit perturbed over the fact. I finally got it filled in though and decided that I would get a jump on the week by writing Friday's column. After that I cooked a bit of breakfast and woke up the rest of the household to help me eat it - much to their collective displeasure - and then decided to make a few phone calls that I had been putting off.
By this time it was about 9:45. When I sat down at my desk and picked up the phone, there it was. The script I had prepared for last week's "What the Huck" segment on the Moby in the Morning radio show. You see, every Wednesday morning for the past four or five years I have called Moby at precisely 7:30 and cut the fool with him for a few minutes. He records my commentaries, edits them to make me sound better than I really do and plays them back around 8 o'clock.
As soon as I saw the script, I knew why the crossword puzzle had been so hard. It wasn't Tuesday morning at all, but Wednesday - and I was AWOL in the largest small town in America, which is how Moby describes his listening audience.
I had, as you see, lost an entire day. I spent a whole Tuesday thinking it was Monday. The worst part, of course, was explaining the whole thing to Moby - but you know what? To get the good news we got at the doctor's office, I would give up every Tuesday for the rest of my life.
It's almost Christmas, y'all. Lisa and I already got our present.
Darrell Huckaby is a local author and educator. He can be reached at dHuck08@bellsouth.net.