“I am telling ya, I’m done.”

Don’t matter what you say or scream or pray or throw or burn or drive or hurl or try to massage edgewise with a shoehorn into my thought bubble. You can’t get any more. You can’t take anymore.

The rope that you were holding on for dear life is down to the last barest thread of whatever material you make ropes outta. And, that …that thread you are holding with your pinkies, because your hand is numb- is slippier than the the snake oil salesmen you know you loathe.

Nope. Not today. No, You are NEVER DONE! The nuns would tell me that cakes are done and people are finished. I knew my time was done when it got dark and they called out for dinner and we ran out of wiffle balls. Well-done is what my parents said to me when I accomplished something. Not, “Hey kid- you are done!” NO, THAT’S DUMB. YOU are never dumb or done. But you can be well-done or done like you done, gone and done it…and wait til your father’s home done. Let’s face it, when someone blurts out “I’m done!”- you should tell them that it is impossible to be done.

Done is when it is finished. Done is when you see the world in the rear view mirror of life. Done is kaput. The end. So, we can put off saying that I am done. Although, I am halfway done. Like half-baked. I think. Or maybe I have always been triple baked and didn’t know it. I loved my mom’s twice baked potatoes. I wonder if I can get the Real Boss to try that one out. Don’t tell her I asked. I try to keep things confidential and personal ya know. Cuz I am also done hiding behind what I can’t do.

Done with what? Well, first of all I am done complaining about traffic on Route 1. It actually keeps me safe. It lets me know I am on the right road. If I see water for example, I will know I am in trouble. But, lots of cars- that’s good. A great sign in fact. It means lights and sounds and the thrill of not having to ask anyone if I can listen to what I want. And I can even pass gas if I am strategic about where the rest stops are. But, one thing, I think. I need to realize is that I am done driving…unless I need to. Or unless I know that the sun will not be showing it’s fierce rays and beams into my windshield every dawn as I approach the newest building that opens it’s welcome arms to me.

I am done running from my label. I am special. Oh. Yeah. Special. I feel it every day that I can be on this planet trying to make someone smile. Even, even, as I am wondering why they are. How special am I? Well, I know I have a walking stick with orange duct tape on it to prevent me from having household disasters. I have no idea what to use it for except to be sure there aren’t steps or boxes or small children in the way. Or maybe the tape is to attract attention- cuz my family loves when I draw attention to us. They keep telling me I am in Public. I swear I moved to Danvers. Not some place called Public. Hell, it seems that people there are so uptight I don’t think I even want a post card from there if you ever visit. I am not going there. I mean I think I am special because my wife won’t let me in the kitchen which makes sense because the last 3 disasters have all been attributed to one thing…me in the kitchen. So, whether you are picking up tiny shards of that glass bottle of olive oil off the floor, or perhaps just wiping up the many spills and thrills that follow me…I am done! (I hope she’s not). Oh and please know that, God rest his soul my father-in-law always told me the Yankees are done. But he started saying that in April.

I just had this weird memory…from things I’ve done… My glorious summer job one year was at none other than…a place called…wait for it…Dunnabeck? Yeah. That’s it. Camp Dunnabeck. Huh? Funny I hadn’t thought of that place in years. See, what happens when you start thinking you’re DONE? Your life flashes before your eyes. And then boom it’s over. You’re practically 50 and all you’ve got to show for it is a sack full of achy-breaky joints and hazy memories of that summer of love. Camp Dunnabeck would do that to ya. Somewhere between the crickets and the hazy heat and the shrill or maybe dulcet tones of Diana Hanbury King cascading over your well developed phonograms. Or diphthongs. Or fricatives. But I digress. Because I was supposed to be done. But, see that’s a trait that I got from my kids. They are never done talking. So if you hear them- give them a break, they had no choice in this weighty matter. I did. And now I am done. Talking. Driving. And overall just done pretending to be able to actually see the broccoli on your teeth. But, thanks for COMING!