Crumple: (v) to give way suddenly; collapse
I love living.
I am downright silly about my enjoyment of breathing.
I am not looking forward to dying.
I am not one of those noble souls who believes I am going to a better place, but instead, have cast my lot in constructing my own “better place” here.
Along with this devotion to inhaling and exhaling comes a certain amount of hypochondria.
I’m not crazy. Nor do I become a nervous wreck about every sneeze or discoloration of a wart.
But I have been known, as a young father, to scream at my children because they caught colds or the stomach flu and were dangerously threatening me with them. On occasion, this reaction has flirted with irrational.
Of late, I have had some good, long talks with myself about refusing to crumple over every little symptom that might temporarily invade my body space.
I am perfectly aware that not every headache is a brain tumor.
Indigestion crops up without foretelling of a heart attack.
And having an occasional bout with bleary eyes due to fatigue does not forewarn of blindness.
You see, I know all these things.
But trying to get my “knower” to make the short journey to my “feeler” is often implausible.
So I am aware that I’m healthy, but I still often try to mimic sick.
On these occasions, I crumple—getting a few tears in my eyes while considering my demise and how sad it will be to those I love, and even mankind as a whole.
It is foolish.
It is childish.
But when I get into one of these crumple fests, it doesn’t help me to know that I’m foolish and childish.
I just need to roll over in the morning, take a deep breath, realize that my lungs are clear, my heart is beating, and God bless America:
“I gots me another day.”