perishable goods

around midnight, all my appliances start glowing. my laptop casts a pretty blue light around the office, my cell phone glows in the dark bedroom, buzzing occasionally with a late night call from my sister. the television, in all its glory, beckons me with light and sound and moving images just waiting to take me out of my world, off the couch in our tiny house by the side of the road, and into a realm of glamour, where giada can eat five pounds of pasta without gaining weight, emily can deny a boy a rose and make him cry, and country stars can sashay around in painted on jeans. even the news doesn't seem as scary when delivered by a pretty blonde in a smart blouse.

but last night, when i was directly in the throngs of technology, i looked over at robert and pablo and had a clear thought. if i wanted them to be, every single appliance in this house could be here forever. this iPad can sit right there on the sofa until i'm 90. it's not going anywhere at all. it's a non-perishable good.

but these boys looking back at me? why, that's a different story. we're aging. pablo hesitates to jump up on the guest bed now. it's harder for me to touch my toes in the morning. even robert has a few renegade grays in his beard. the truth is, we're perishable. it's not morbid or sad, it's a beautiful truth. we will go bad one day, just like the cucumbers hanging in the kitchen, or the bread on the shelf. so i have to remind myself to savor the good. the now. the ripeness of today.

of course, if i plan on saving pablo, i've got another thing coming. that pup's been spoiled since the day we got him.