We're all worm food

Jill and I had the great good fortune of being visited last week by one of my oldest friends, John, and his wife of 42 years, Anneli. It turned out that we were all compatible and had a great time laughing, talking and excursioning around the Triangle, visiting friends and touring gardens and looking at outsider art. I even introduced them to Eastern North Carolina BBQ. They may not have been as taken with it as I am; it's an acquired taste.

It helps to have visitors from far away in order to see my own home through new eyes. The internet helps, too. John had identified a few things he wanted to see, especially the whirlygigs by Wilson artist Vollis Simpson. Had I ever heard of him? Well, yes, in a way. That enormous whirlygig installation down at the NC Museum of Art is one of his. But I sure didn't know what we would find down in Wilson, and never anticipated the delightfully slow, friendly conversation with the 93-year-old artist in his hilariously cluttered and junky-looking workshop, way out in the piney woods.

John and Anneli live in Sweden; Anneli is Swedish and John is a Navy Brat, which is why we were in high school together in Rota, Spain back in the stone ages. He is one of the few friends I've really kept up with from high school.

So what does all this have to do with worm food? Well, it goes like this. Anneli is a smoker. She's also a teeny, tiny, petite little person who a good wind would blow away. She apologized a couple of times for smoking out on the deck, even though neither of us has a problem with it ---- that's why there are ashtrays on the front and back porches. She even assured me that she was well aware that it's bad for one's health, but . . . (shrug of the shoulders). It made me think about the things most of us do that we KNOW are not good for us. I couldn't help but think about that, about me that is, because I felt like an elephant beside her and was acutely aware of my own indulgences that are bad for my health, but . . . (shrug of the shoulders).

Don't we all have them, almost everybody? It might be smoking or overeating, drinking, drugs, cheating on spouses or taxes. Could be uncontrollable anger or stress, inactivity, overspending, gossip, bad decision-making. There are so many colorful ways to self-sabotage and this is just the obvious stuff. What about reckless driving? risky sports? setting fires for fun and profit? Anything that momentarily takes attention out of the humdrum here and now and has even a minimal bit of risk or excitement to it, qualifies.

So if everybody has their own little (or big) ways of cheating death, does that mean it's simply a human trait and not something to be condemned or feel guilty over? After all, nobody is going to get out of this alive. Which brings us to the worm food.

After mentally slapping myself around for awhile, I shook myself off and came back to ground zero. This journey through life is plenty perilous without using myself as a punching bag. Yes, I have some self-sabotaging behaviors/obsessions/compulsions/habits. That puts me in line with 99% of the rest of humanity. I'll allow for the possibility of 1% sainthood. Could I do better? Probably. Should I do better? Probably. But when you get right down to it, just exactly how healthy do I want to be and what's the trade off?

My mother, who counted every calorie and never met a chocolate bar she didn't long for, did it almost all correctly. She did smoke lightly for many years, but she quit 30 years ago. She ate obsessively right, exercised regularly right up until she couldn't reliably stand up anymore, walked two miles a day rain or shine, drank moderately and really put a lot of effort into staying healthy. Now it's all paying off ----- her healthy body has far outlived her mind.

Given the choice, I would easily pick the major heart attack (number 1 killer of post-menopausal women) over spending the last 5-10 years of my life chugging along without my wits. I'm carrying more weight than I'm comfortable with, probably putting myself at risk for weight related health problems or a shortened lifespan. I may change my tune if the doc says look, you're fixin' to check out really soon. But for now, I settle myself with thoughts of probability.

These are the odds: The chances are 100% that I'm going to die. Just like everyone else. No matter how utterly fit you are, how completely you follow every rule of good health and sensible living, your odds and mine are exactly the same. It's just a matter of when and how. And as far as I know, getting hit by a bus or run over by a tornado is just as deadly for an Olympic athlete of 25 as it is for an ice cream lovin' 61-year-old  couch potato. I walk my dog, I hang out the clothes, I take care of my family and I sit and read and write and savor the smooth, creamy caramel crunch. So sue me.

We're all worm food in the end.