LAUGHING AT MYSELF

I call you by the dog’s name and must smile,

Because so many times you behave stubbornly,

Or ignore me like you do not hear me when I am talking to you.

Just like that old dog of ours.

I can call out to him, coax him, plead with him.

He stubbornly does not react.

He is deaf to my voice.

And I laugh at myself when making that subconscious connection

Between you, a sixteen-year-old girl,

And that old, male dog.

I pick you up from work ten minutes late.

Me, the person who arrives early to everything –

Church, meetings, all kinds of gatherings.

But when it is time to pick you up from that part-time job you hate so much,

I am not eager to hear all about it.

I dutifully inquire “How was your shift?”

And silently laugh at myself.

There I am, someone whom others say is a “great listener,”

Pretending to pay attention to every dramatic detail you relate -

when I’m actually counting the minutes until we get home and out of the car.

I can’t find my car keys.

They were on the table by the back door just minutes before …

Or so it seemed.

But now they have disappeared.

I must “walk backwards” in my mind to recall just what I may have done with them.

It is time to prepare dinner.

I open the freezer and there they lie – cold and frosty.

I laugh at myself for how scattered I can be –

Me, the one who has all the answers…

The one who can remember the trivial things for everyone else.

Some would say I’m becoming senile.

Others may just remind me that age “does that” to people.

Then there are those who simply tell me I have too much on my mind.

I don’t accept those bags of snakes people offer,

Because if I did, I’d be depressed by the possible truth of it all.

So, I laugh at myself;

I choose to believe that by chuckling a couple times each day,

I add smiles to my life

Instead of sadness at what could be the real situation –

If I acknowledged it.