In insecure moments, of which I seem to have far too many, I ask my wife if she will miss me when I leave to run errands. This seems to bewilder her but she manages to offer some encouraging comment to send me off. I suppose since I’m always around, the concept of missing me just fails to resonate with her. I’m no fan of country music but sometimes only a country-western song can explain life’s mysteries so simply. “How can she miss me when I won’t go away?”
Well, I trust that Cantankerous Old Coots readers don’t have this problem. I’ve been away for six weeks. At this point it is fair to ask, “Did you miss me?” I don’t expect an answer sincereadership here at COC is apparently a secret pleasure. Expecting a comment or encouraging response to a post is too much to ask. Management and staff alike are conditioned to perpetual silence from our readers- even as their numbers continue to grow. Perhaps there is another country-western song out there to explain this but this Coot doesn’t have the stomach to listen.
What I do know is that I missed composing posts for COC. You might think that bitching about life is the easiest thing in the world but the truth is that, all things considered, life is much better than any of the alternatives. When I sit down to bitch, before I know it, I start thinking about how good things actually are and my complaints seem trivial and contrived.
When I sat down this morning, I was ready to lash out about our unresponsive readers, complain about Justin’s demanding management style and Bob’s extended honeymoon. I was prepared to add a few comments about food shopping and pickpockets in Peru with a some asides about foreign airports. Mysteriously, my annoyance and venom seem to have faded. Collecting and organizing my thoughts, I find that the issues that annoy me are pushed aside by pleasure in connecting once again with our COC readers.
Maybe readers haven’t missed me for the five week absence. Maybe even going away isn’t enough to generate a sense of loss without my posts, but I find that that doesn’t really matter to me. What matters is that I missed you.