Beltocalpse and the end-of-the-world party

Throughout Shade’s recovery, I am constantly amazed by his positive attitude. Despite being in a wheelchair, needing assistance with nearly every physical task, and having issues with memory recall and processing, he doesn’t complain about it. I, on the other hand, am a cranky old man in comparison. (Get off my proverbial lawn, kids!) I wonder if his injury destroyed his bitchabellum, that part of the brain that causes one to groan about small life irritants. I think mine has enlarged since last year. I better get it checked out.

This is not to say that Shade doesn’t get his sudden moods. Just this morning, he had an overwhelming need for a belt that consumed him. I got him a cloth D-ring belt (it has those two D-shaped metal rings at the end that you pull the belt end through), but he got it all fouled up as he snaked it through his pants’ belt loops and suddenly his mood was blacker than the tornadic clouds of Tropical Storm Debby, which has engulfed Florida these last few days. I scurried around looking for an alternative belt while Shade smoldered over his loathing of all belts and loose pants. I finally found a usable belt in Aitza’s side of the closet and hurried down. Shade was laying on the couch staring blankly at the ceiling, contemplating the futility of life and belts. I decided another tactic and found some M&Ms and poured a few in his open hand. He picked them up one by one and put them in his mouth. Then the sun blasted though his emotional clouds, and all was right with the world and belts and pants and life in general. Shade was chirping away while looping his new belt through his shorts and all the evil of the beltocalypse was instantly forgotten.

Shade and Mayan went to their first big concert at the Amway Center on Saturday. We (meaning the whole family), along with many other parents and kids, were invited by Kim and Tom Weichert to their son Dillon’s birthday party. His b-day request was to have his party at the LMFAO concert. That’s the way to party. We decked out in our brightest neon and funkiest hats and, after a pre-party at the Weichert’s house, cruised to their private club-level box in the arena. It was a non-stop aerobic dance-o-rama. We cleared seats to form our own dance floor to bounce around on, and we had plenty of snacks and beverages to nourish our sweat-saturated bodies. I will say that some of LMFAO’s songs might be deemed inappropriate for the kids. Well, maybe all of the songs were inappropriate. Every lyric was either an innuendo or a direct reference to binge drinking and/or illicit sex (two of my top three themes, the third being bacon). But the kids were so busy dancing like they had habanero peppers in their undies that they barely watched the concert, which was a mix between a club dance-show and a comedy event. (To be fair, LMFAO does ask forgiveness for their transgressions when they sing: Sorry for Party Rocking. I forgive you, LMFAO) I even had Shade up and dancing, my arms under his pits holding him up so he could wiggle his legs about. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, yeah! LMFAO doesn’t have the poetic resonance or thematic depth of Roger Waters, whom blasted our brains last week, but they’d be a fun group to invite to your end-of-the-world party. Thanks, Kim and Tom!

Talking about end of the world … Shade gets the lion’s share of this blog, as he’s the recoverer, but Mayan has been affected by the whole experience, too, though he has managed it fairly well. But last night he crawled in bed with us crying because he couldn’t shake the image of Shade collapsing on the floor. He would try to think of other things but that shocking memory kept returning. It happens to him occasionally, usually at night when everything has quieted down and he’s alone with his thoughts. Sometimes Mayan will come into the room complaining about a headache and terrified that he’s going to have a stroke himself. I think it’s time to get Mayan some counseling. He’s weathered this storm bravely for almost a year now and could use a pro to help him work it out. Aitza and I talk with Mayan about the accident and the future, but I don’t know what to tell him to allow him to heal. I want to reassure him that he’s safe, but I can’t honestly because I thought Shade was safe last year and look how that turned out. No one is safe, ever. There are a million ways to die instantly, randomly, senselessly. (I don’t think Mayan is ready for this philosophy yet.) My compensation method is to accept the imminent end and realize that living in fear is no way to live at all.  Dwelling on mortality too much will turn me into one of those crazy doomsayers who paces on street corners with a bullhorn screaming: “The End is Coming.” I prefer to sit on my couch with a Yuengling and scream: “The Beer is Coming!” Neither act will bring on the end or prevent it, but at least my method usually includes friends and munchies. And if I can swing it, LMFAO.

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