Trena Eiden

Winston Churchill loved rich foods, expensive liquor and fine cigars. Given today’s health pronouncements, Churchill should have died long before his time, but in fact, lived to be 90. In contrast, tennis star Arthur Ashe kept himself in excellent shape and avoided smoking, yet he suffered two heart attacks by age 40. Ashe died at 49 from pneumonia after acquiring the AIDS virus while receiving tainted blood during heart surgery. 

Life doesn’t seem to be fair, does it? No, it doesn’t and the reason I feel this is because Gar has never met a pastry that didn’t absolutely set his heart aflutter. He’ll eat, without question, every muffin, cinnamon roll, cookie, croissant, danish or random bakery item that’s been dithering in his lunch box for two weeks. And his cholesterol is that of a teenage boy’s. 

I, on the other hand, rarely eat a store-bought baked good. I’m a snob and other than an occasional donut, I rarely partake of yeast-laden items purchased at the local grocer. And my cholesterol is atrocious, and that’s without exaggeration. 

Gar thinks he’ll die before I do. I’m convinced I’ll keel over from a heart attack first, but I cannot tell a lie: My clogged arteries are not just my grandma’s fault. When I make a grocery list, butter, cream and cheese are at the top as number one, two and three. They’re my favorite foods, but sadly it’s a love-hate relationship: I love them and they hate me.

I’m certain they meander in, then forget to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to recall how to leave. Toting sleeping bags, these loves of my life are settling in my warm body, closing off a lot of exits I can’t live without. For what it’s worth, Gar matches my adoration for dairy so why doesn’t he have clogged arteries? Life is biased.

Does this keep me from pouring great gobs of thick cream on oats, lathering heaps of butter on mashed potatoes or gulping mounds of cheese on anything cheese-worthy? Nope, because I’ve figured out that we need to do what brings us joy, hence, I don’t nag Gar about eating junk food at night while watching a Netflix flick. 

We must find what delights us and do more of that, and I’m pretty sure I just found the profession I really want. A friend, who knows me well, told me about it. It’s the job where I push scared skydivers out of planes. Doing that might cause me to break out daily in lighthearted song. Mercy’s not my gift. I think we’ve come to that conclusion on numerous previous occasions. 

I know for a fact that talking to strangers is my strength and charm, and it makes my kids torturously uncomfortable, which is reason enough to continue doing it whenever circumstances present themselves. I do know thinking is not my greatest attribute. Gar got the brains and I got … vocal cords. When I try thinking, I’m a general disappointment. 

Knowing I was leaving at 2 a.m. on a Friday morning for the airport, on Thursday morning I ran the dishwasher, tidied the house and gathered the garbage. Since it was minus 2 degrees, I decided, instead of walking the garbage to the dumpster, I’d put it in the truck’s back seat, thinking I’d dump it before leaving for work, an hour away.

You know where this is going.

I grabbed my purse, got in and drove. When I got to my destination, I opened the truck’s back door and there to greet me was my big, black garbage bag. I couldn’t simply dump it in my client’s trash barrel, that would have been unscrupulous … not that it didn’t cross my mind; I never said I was holy. No, I later hauled it all the way back home, and did I remember to drop it off before pulling up in the driveway? No, I forgot till I parked and again opened the back door of the vehicle. I trundled it — at minus 3 now, one degree colder — to the trash receptacle. 

Friday on the plane, donning my cozy neck pillow, I dozed off only to startle myself awake with a snort. I grimaced at my frowning, 20-something seatmate, who would have been entertained had he been 12.

Life isn’t just, so do what gladdens your heart. If you feel I could fix a problem or meet a need, remember the above-mentioned instances. They’re the sum of my existence, which might be why Gar’s face appears chronically wistful.