I am tired and somewhat crabby. Ok, I’m tired and really crabby. I can no longer keep up with Donald Trump and his crazy, unpredictable agenda. How does someone in their 70s find the energy to randomly destroy a government while eating Kentucky Fried Chicken and tweeting at 3 a.m.? I don’t get it. He should be dead, or at least somewhat immobile. He should be napping frequently, eating a lot of salads, and be in bed by 10 p.m. Instead, Trump is like an evil Transformer, wiping out everything in his path, while his pathetic staff is trying to pick up the pieces. They should be bringing him milk and cookies instead. He seems like a milk-and-cookies kind of guy. He must have super genes.
I am six years younger than Trump. I bike, hike, and exercise daily. I eat a whole-foods, plant-based diet and don’t smoke, drink to excess, or take medications. My blood pressure and weight are right where they should be. Yet I don’t think I could keep up with Trump. I think that after one day of endless visitors, questions, controversies, and meetings, I would want to retire to my tower — or in my case, bedroom — and not come out for several days or weeks. All I would need is my spouse, dog, cat, iPad, and an occasional plate of food slipped under the door. Actually, my house is probably about the size of Trump’s bedroom (I honestly wouldn’t know — or want to know, for that matter). Therefore, I could just be under house arrest. I’m good with that. I want peace, quiet, and tranquility. Dammit, I’ve earned it. I don’t think I have any super genes.
I’m scared to watch or read the news. My inbox is crammed with pleas for assistance from dozens of organizations. If I could just give a dollar and sign this petition, maybe we could stop environmental destruction, climate change, or animal abuse. Or, if I could attend a certain march, rally, or meeting, our voices will be heard. I believe there is strength in numbers, and we all need to work together for change. But where was everyone when we picketed the pet store, or rallied for Cecil, or protested the circus? Why haven’t Utah women demanded better pay and equal rights before now? Perhaps if both men and women were more responsible with birth control, we wouldn’t have so many mouths at the trough. Perhaps if Americans didn’t think they could shoot their way out of a bad situation, there might be more civil dialogue; and maybe if they didn’t think they had to kill everything that has motor skills, there would still be some wild species for our children and grandchildren to enjoy.
Some of this is deja vu for me. In the sixties and seventies, we protested, burned our bras, and smoked pot. Not in Utah, though. We also sang the praises of free love (definitely not in Utah). That combination probably got us into the impossible situations we find ourselves in now. My generation probably started it, and future generations have exacerbated it. The entire world is on a fast track to self destruction, and the leader of the free world is probably eating a plate of greasy fast food for lunch. I would imagine some meetings might follow with a dinner of exotic and exquisitely prepared dead animal, culminating with an after-dinner discussion with the “kids” or staff. Maybe there will be some late night tweeting that will cause another moral or political crisis. Super genes are not always a good thing.
I am sure Trump’s staff is exhausted trying to put out fires. I would be. I’m waiting for the 70-year-old Tasmanian devil to strike again. How he has the stamina to do what he does escapes me. Why does he not have arthritis in his writing hand from signing all those executive orders or steady tweeting? It seems like he would be a good candidate for a heart attack or stroke. Meanwhile, wild, unpredictable weather events are occurring on a regular basis, and more species are rapidly becoming extinct. Civil rights of all kinds are in jeopardy, and I need a nap or at least a super gene or two. Just saying.
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