Having to be anywhere at eight o’clock in the morning is not part of my routine. I won’t however pout about today’s regime. Though it involved an early morning start it was hardly an imposition. The theme of the day was a visit to Le Spa of Sea Pines for a haircut, manicure and pedicure. My first appointment was at 9:30 am.
In an attempt to temper what can only be described as my school girl inclination to keep a diary, and in submission to my urge to record the details of my littoral sojourn on Hilton Head Island, I have relented to the extent that I will attempt to capture the facts without completely contaminating the account with tiresome personal information. This is a project likely doomed to fail. Segregating individuality from the general landscape is virtually impossible. There may however surface in the slush of what I say at least an element of substance. Such haughty aspiration!
Generally speaking I don’t like old stuff. I prefer things like “Cadillac all shiny and new” and clothing that hasn’t the dubious charm of a well-worn Harris tweed jacket. But I acknowledge there is a case to be made for a patina.
I have never flown a glider. I have no desire to try bungee jumping. Aerial kite flying is right out! In fact for my entire life I haven’t really done anything either outstanding or remarkable. Swimming, downhill skiing and bicycling are about as adventurous as I have been. The transitions in my life were essentially predictable. Even winning the occasional reward or distinction was about par for the course. I have by comparison no hope of appointment to the bench or bestowal of a reward by the Governor General. Mediocrity is perhaps the least indelicate description of my life’s fulfillment.
When my elderly mother asked when I intended to leave for Florida for the winter (we actually go to South Carolina but Florida is her colloquial term for “south”) and I told her early November, she summarily retorted, “So you won’t be home for Christmas“.
When we spend the winter on Hilton Head Island it is “off season”. The real tourist traffic starts in March and continues until Labour Day in September. There are clusters of people who return for American Thanksgiving on the third Thursday of November and again briefly after the New Year. Otherwise the Island is comparatively quiet. I was reminded of that today as I lounged by the pool in the late afternoon sunshine.
I have always rationalized that I enjoy life because I have nothing much to complain about not. I haven’t any special talent for managing the ups and downs of life. Indeed I rather hold fast to the theme that life is good even though I am certain that an impartial on-looker might not be quite so charitable. This morning for example I received a long-distance telephone call from my neurologist’s office advising me that his review of my recent MRI discloses a degenerative disc. I can’t say that I was either alarmed or perturbed by the intelligence. After all I’ve been living with this progressive ailment for years now. In fact I indicated that it is probably just something I will have to live with forever (although I may think differently once I receive his full written report). Until then however I have resigned myself to accepting that dilapidation and aging go hand-in-hand. That certainly seems to be the universal empirical conclusion so I don’t see why I should be an exception.
A glistening Thanksgiving Day on Hilton Head Island! Though I went to bed around midnight last night I was up before seven o’clock this morning, a tad earlier than normal. My days of beating to the office before nine are long gone! As a rejuvenation I decided to launder my bed clothes and bath towels, etc. I tossed in the textile I had worn yesterday as well. The washer/dryer here is extremely efficient, it practically invites participation! Almost all my clothes are identical – three blue and white stripped Polo shirts, four white Polo shirts, 3 white smalls, two white shorts, 2 khaki shorts, a red and a black pair of synthetic shorts (for bicycling), 2 sets of three pairs of white socks. The cotton crewneck sweaters are red and grey (I would have a dark blue but they didn’t have my XXX size on my latest shopping spree). I have two woollen sweaters for those chilly days in January (and one black Viyella cardigan that I’ll probably never wear here). Generally I look the same one day to the next. I only have one webbed belt. My thinking is, if I need anything else, I’ll buy it. Generally every morning I wash whatever I wore the previous day though as I say, no one could tell, it all looks the same.
When I was speaking on the telephone this morning with my elderly mother – a communication I prosecute almost daily – she asked whether I was getting bored being on Hilton Head Island, bicycling every day, routinely contemplating the Atlantic Ocean, listening to the sea gulls and and the clack of empty oyster shells and lounging in the perpetual sunshine surrounded by Palmetto ferns. I told her, “No!” She laughed and seemed to agree, all but muttering as she has so often said before, “What’s not to like!”
I have always jokingly observed that I have a foot fetish. Perhaps it is true though it’s not something about which I have consulted a professional. I confess I rather like feet all other things being equal. By that I mean I obviously only applaud the well-maintained and naturally crafted feet. There are for example some dreadful renditions of feet caused by arthritis and neglect. Those poor feet are not what I’m talking about at all, not at all!