Nobody Reads This Page: “Cell Phone Confession”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

During my first marriage, a difference in energy levels often seemed to cause irritation in the homestead. My wife was older by a decade, and from that advanced perspective, had developed traits that were honed by experience. Her wisdom often proved to be useful during the period that we were paired. But occasionally, she reached a point of fatigue more quickly when we were on the road and staying active. This caused her not only to feel fatigued in a physical sense, but also aroused some emotional distress over attempting to match my faster pace of living.

 

I kept late hours at work, and in the office, wherever we lived.

 

Memories of this conflict are amusing in current terms, because like my father, I met a wall of chronological limitations upon reaching the middle years of a normal lifespan. While I did not necessarily slow my movements, by choice, I noted that keeping up with the tempo I had set became more difficult. As disabilities took hold, this decline in personal velocity only intensified. I fought bravely against the genetic template that was in effect, but when being sidelined several years ago in terms of gainful employment, that condition overwhelmed my persistence. I called it being early to the party, as someone who had been nudged into retirement, and an odd sort of solitude existing on the fringe.

 

At 55, I had become redundant as a participant in the labor pool. But conversely, more active for myself with creative pursuits.

 

When I worked long hours throughout the week, even on holidays and late at night, I still found time to stay current with household chores and social connections. Yet having succumbed to the routine of a senior citizen, that discipline seemed to ebb. Perhaps it was a realization that living alone, and without a mandated schedule of any sort, many things that once appeared to be important lost that designation, completely.

 

This unsettled some in my circle, who were accustomed to the former incarnation of what I had been. No longer a night owl, I became instead a morning rooster, rising with the sun. Responding biologically to the crowing fowl in my head. This adjustment came as a surprise to me, and to those who expected that I would be available at all hours, for adult refreshments by the campfires of summer. Eventually, I found myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pondering a visage that had now become unfamiliar. No longer groomed for a corporate-level presentation while on duty, I had descended into a pleasant detachment from that world of responsibility. I quit visiting the barber, and also, jettisoned my razor. Dress shirts, neckties, and any associated apparel disappeared, in favor of T-shirts and athletic trousers. I took to wearing one of my baseball caps throughout the day, instead of only when away from work. With my joints aching and bones bent by aging, I adopted a wooden bench on the front porch as a favored spot for drinking and interacting with neighbors.

 

The result of all these changes came on an evening when I remembered the reaction of my former spouse to our vexing difference in perspectives. With a generous amount of brewed alcohol in my system, and a relaxed mood eliminating any inhibitions, I decided to place a call for the purpose of confessing the guilt I felt. And possibly, soothing at least some of the old wounds that were left after our breakup.

 

Her previous number was still in service. My voice on her messaging app must have been unexpected. But I did my best to offer a jovial tone of greeting.

 

“Hey Mama Bee, here I am, sitting outside for some fresh air and such. Things get stale inside, I find myself wanting to escape the confines of this singlewide abode. But doing so is more difficult than in olden days, because to be blunt, I don’t go anywhere, anymore. It’ll probably sound amazing to you, but I often find that days and weeks may go by, without needing to leave this narrow space for any reason. I have even given up shopping, after a period of patronizing small, family markets, and places like Dollar General out here in the country. I get things delivered now, it is a great help with my lack of mobility becoming more and more of a handicap. I only leave to get my mail, pay the lot rent, or visit a doctor. Otherwise, I don’t care to roam around as when we were together. My sense of adventure has dissipated over time. I am in an old-man mode of living now, not by choice necessarily, but because all other options are gone. The payoff is in having more energy for writing projects, and research online. I feel it has been a worthy trade from one phase of life, to the next. Yet sometimes I sit here, indulging myself, and remember our lively conversations. We communicated better than most I think, compared to other married couples. It was our forte. A shared quality that I miss in the evening hours, when the craft of creative wordsmithing no longer occupies my thoughts. I become melancholy and sentimental, which is another change from those distant months and years. All of this has a connection to what I saw in my own father, as he grew older. So, for better or worse, I wanted to say that to you, at least with this rambling, recorded note. I hope you are well, and enjoying the role of being a grandmother. What we experienced together was a gift. One that I will cherish, into eternity. Take care of yourself, and everyone. You are still in my heart, always. Thanks for listening...”

 

With my reflective moment complete, I returned to the household refrigerator. There was still almost a full case of Miller Lite on hand, along with beef sticks, pickles, and cheese bites waiting to be devoured. I had developed a routine of ordering items as needed, while sitting with my wireless link, in hand. So the cupboards and appliances were well-stocked. No longer was the thought of having to carry water jugs and cases of food in from my car a major concern.

 

But while sitting by myself, I realized that the audio document left via a phone queue should have included a caveat about my transformation, from a young bull to an older mule, now put out to pasture. I guessed that as things stood in modern times, we would have been much more compatible. Though with the benefit of hindsight, perhaps it was better to have left that truism unsaid. It no longer made any difference.

 

Each of us had learned to cope with what life brought to our doorstep. For that blessing, I felt grateful, and content.