KITTEN MAN
I used to be strong, now I'm weak as a kitten
Kitten Man
I suppose I'll never be a hero, at least not to anyone outside of my family. There will most likely never be any comic books, radio shows or movies in which I would be the star. After all, what kind of a super hero would Kitten Man be? What little kid points at me in the supermarket and excitedly tells his mom, " When I grow up, that's who I want to be like!?" It's not gonna happen. I can't even fool myself into pretending it could.
When I was young I watched Superman on TV. It was kind of hokie I guess, but when you're a kid, you want to believe anything. When I got older I used to go to Meister's drug store and buy the latest editions of Superman, Batman, The Flash and Sgt. Rock comic books. They were only twelve cents each at the time, so a dollar would buy a whole slug of them. Superman could fly, he was super strong and was always rescuing Lois Lane from some kind of trouble. I can't imagine Lois or Lana Lang or even Perry White, Clark Kent's editor at the Daily Planet, placing a call to Kitten Man when an emergency came up. Batman and Robin were always putting away the bad guys, and the Flash, well, even if someone shot a bullet at him he could outrun it. Pretty impressive if you ask me. Sgt. Rock and Easy company were reliving the battles of World War II in each edition and winning every one. They were strong and brave. That's who I wanted to be like when I grew up.
As we all know, fantasy and reality are two different things. I'd like to be rich, smart, handsome, funny, and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but that train left the station without me on it. I'm none of the above. I'm not even sure that I'm nice all the time. Sometimes I don't even want to be nice. Sometimes I'm a jerk and just wallow in my jerk-ness. I don't know why. I really have no desire to stitch a giant J on a sweater and put on tights and let the world know that the J stands for Jerk-man. There are plenty enough of those guys around without me being the spokesman. I wouldn't want to be president of the International Association of Jerks, although if there were such an organization, I'd probably be nominated for the position frequently.
This isn't my printed confession of all my sins. There isn't enough time to list them all- I'd be dead before I got through to the end, if there was an end. No, this is more or less an acknowledgement that I'm getting older. No surprise there. Part of getting older is getting weaker. Most men that I know are a LITTLE on the vain side. When we're young we like to look at our muscles, maybe go pump some iron, compete in sports that tax our physical strength, do a few pull-ups in the bedroom doorway. When I was young I had a set of weights. I'd go through a routine and then rush up to the bathroom mirror and admire my muscles."Ooohh, aahh, I think they're getting bigger!" In time life encroached, and I didn't spend time lifting weights intentionally.
When I lived on the farm there was no shortage of physical activity. We had a sawmill that cut green lumber, spruce and hemlock. Some of those planks weighed a ton. For the first five years there was no generator or pump, so we had to walk a quarter mile to the creek and fill two five gallon buckets at a time and make multiple trips until all the barrels in camp were full. We would chop wood and load it into a horse drawn cart and then unload it at one of the cabins. Many a time I hoisted a Blacktail deer onto my back and carted it down the mountain, and then once I reached the beach I'd load it into a canoe and paddle to a waiting boat. It was part of my life, and I was able to do it. I was strong then.
Now I struggle to pick up a sixty pound bag of sand for the driveway. I look around the aisles at Home Depot to make sure no one is watching while I try to wrestle it into the cart. Yesterday I had to dump a forty pound bag of salt into the water softener. Even that was a struggle. When I'm on my boat and it's time to check the oil in the morning before I start the engine, I stare down into the compartment like I was looking into the Grand Canyon. It's only about an eighteen inch step down, but I have to work up the courage to do it. I had to put a handle on the wall so I could grab it and pull myself up once I'm done with the chore. Otherwise I'd never get out of the compartment.
I used to be strong; I really was. Now mowing the lawn takes half the day, in part because of the rest breaks. A walk around the neighborhood feels like a marathon and shoveling the driveway is a monumental task. I used to make money shoveling snow for old folks. Now I am one. I hate getting old. It's not just for myself that I hate it. I want to be able to haul a laundry basket upstairs for my wife without stopping, or helping my neighbor with a task that requires some manual labor, or giving the lady at the post office a hand with her heavy boxes. I don't want to be that not so super hero, Kitten Man, but I'm afraid that's who I'm becoming.
When I was young I watched Superman on TV. It was kind of hokie I guess, but when you're a kid, you want to believe anything. When I got older I used to go to Meister's drug store and buy the latest editions of Superman, Batman, The Flash and Sgt. Rock comic books. They were only twelve cents each at the time, so a dollar would buy a whole slug of them. Superman could fly, he was super strong and was always rescuing Lois Lane from some kind of trouble. I can't imagine Lois or Lana Lang or even Perry White, Clark Kent's editor at the Daily Planet, placing a call to Kitten Man when an emergency came up. Batman and Robin were always putting away the bad guys, and the Flash, well, even if someone shot a bullet at him he could outrun it. Pretty impressive if you ask me. Sgt. Rock and Easy company were reliving the battles of World War II in each edition and winning every one. They were strong and brave. That's who I wanted to be like when I grew up.
As we all know, fantasy and reality are two different things. I'd like to be rich, smart, handsome, funny, and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but that train left the station without me on it. I'm none of the above. I'm not even sure that I'm nice all the time. Sometimes I don't even want to be nice. Sometimes I'm a jerk and just wallow in my jerk-ness. I don't know why. I really have no desire to stitch a giant J on a sweater and put on tights and let the world know that the J stands for Jerk-man. There are plenty enough of those guys around without me being the spokesman. I wouldn't want to be president of the International Association of Jerks, although if there were such an organization, I'd probably be nominated for the position frequently.
This isn't my printed confession of all my sins. There isn't enough time to list them all- I'd be dead before I got through to the end, if there was an end. No, this is more or less an acknowledgement that I'm getting older. No surprise there. Part of getting older is getting weaker. Most men that I know are a LITTLE on the vain side. When we're young we like to look at our muscles, maybe go pump some iron, compete in sports that tax our physical strength, do a few pull-ups in the bedroom doorway. When I was young I had a set of weights. I'd go through a routine and then rush up to the bathroom mirror and admire my muscles."Ooohh, aahh, I think they're getting bigger!" In time life encroached, and I didn't spend time lifting weights intentionally.
When I lived on the farm there was no shortage of physical activity. We had a sawmill that cut green lumber, spruce and hemlock. Some of those planks weighed a ton. For the first five years there was no generator or pump, so we had to walk a quarter mile to the creek and fill two five gallon buckets at a time and make multiple trips until all the barrels in camp were full. We would chop wood and load it into a horse drawn cart and then unload it at one of the cabins. Many a time I hoisted a Blacktail deer onto my back and carted it down the mountain, and then once I reached the beach I'd load it into a canoe and paddle to a waiting boat. It was part of my life, and I was able to do it. I was strong then.
Now I struggle to pick up a sixty pound bag of sand for the driveway. I look around the aisles at Home Depot to make sure no one is watching while I try to wrestle it into the cart. Yesterday I had to dump a forty pound bag of salt into the water softener. Even that was a struggle. When I'm on my boat and it's time to check the oil in the morning before I start the engine, I stare down into the compartment like I was looking into the Grand Canyon. It's only about an eighteen inch step down, but I have to work up the courage to do it. I had to put a handle on the wall so I could grab it and pull myself up once I'm done with the chore. Otherwise I'd never get out of the compartment.
I used to be strong; I really was. Now mowing the lawn takes half the day, in part because of the rest breaks. A walk around the neighborhood feels like a marathon and shoveling the driveway is a monumental task. I used to make money shoveling snow for old folks. Now I am one. I hate getting old. It's not just for myself that I hate it. I want to be able to haul a laundry basket upstairs for my wife without stopping, or helping my neighbor with a task that requires some manual labor, or giving the lady at the post office a hand with her heavy boxes. I don't want to be that not so super hero, Kitten Man, but I'm afraid that's who I'm becoming.
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