I’m thinking about coffee this morning. I have at least four cups every morning. I take mine with 3 packets of Splenda and 60g of 2% milk. It’s worth mentioning that a “cup” of coffee is six fluid ounces, not eight. Imperial measurements are just bizarre. It would probably be better to say I start my day with 24 fluid ounces of coffee. I’ll probably do that in the future, further making it difficult for people to understand me in my desperate attempt to not be misunderstood. Irony.

Anyhow, I’m thinking about coffee because this morning, I have to take it black. I’ve got my annual physical with fasting blood tests coming up in about an hour. I do the physical every year to give my doctor’s life meaning. She’s nice and I’m a giver. Also, without the bloodwork, we just sort of stand around and look at each other. “Do you want me to check your prostate? I dunno. Do you want to check my prostate? I dunno. We can do it next time. Well, what does it say in the manual? I’m not qualified to make that call.”

The blood tests are excellent talking points.

We should have lots to talk about this time around. I’m back up to 266 pounds because food and beer taste good so not only am I morbidly obese again, my cholesterol and triglycerides should be just dandy. I don’t overly care. I’m turning 54 in a week, and I’ve spent far too much of my limited existence eschewing pleasure. I see life as a gift, not too different than when you’re a child and that relative you barely know gives you something entirely inappropriate because they don’t really know you very well. You are obligated to use that gift regardless because it was really nice of them to think of you. In simple terms, your eccentric Aunt gave you a meatsuit for your birthday. To not use the shit out of it would be disrespectful. I’m just saying.

So, yeah, fasting blood work. I can have coffee, but it has to be black and you know what? Because coffee drinkers may have their preferences and protest black coffee all day long, but given a choice between black coffee and no coffee, to quote Wesley Snipes back in the day, “Always bet on black.”

There is a lesson here, I think. There’s what we want and there’s what we can get. I used to be a big time romantic, an idealist, only accepting what should be, mocking pragmatists for selling themselves short and just settling for whatever. That’s the lesson, I think. Maybe a realization. I’ve accepted pragmatism as a way of life, for achieving my ideals. Younger me would be disgusted, of course, but he honestly didn’t really know anything, which is where the real irony comes into play. His attitude, all those years ago was the birth of my more pragmatic stance.

I used to say, “Just get it done and feel about it later.” when faced with the unpleasantness of life, because bills had to be paid, no matter how distastefully it was accomplished. I bought into the romantic lie that the measure of a man is how well he endures hardship because he can. How fucked up is that? The thing is, that’s not an ideal. Well, maybe for a masochist, but I’m not him.

Again, there’s what you want versus what you can get. Dreams and ideals are wonderful things, but they should really be tempered with what is actually available. Life is a candy shop and you can have whatever you can afford, but you can’t have everything and honestly, that’s just fine. Alright, some people can, but not everyone. So what?

The takeaway is, get what candy you can get while you can. There may or may not be more candy available after, so you might as well go for it. If you wait, you may not have any at all. And that’s the nice thing about coffee. If that’s your thing, you already know about the candy.

Black coffee is better than no coffee and tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. All you really have to worry about today is keeping gas in the tank, food in your belly, and the lights on. Everything else is gravy.

As I’m coming back from the blood draw, I’m thinking of Doris Day and her classic, “Whatever will be, will be.”

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother what will I be?

Will I be pretty? Will I be rich? Here’s what she said to me.

Que Sera, Sera. Whatever will be, will be.

The Future’s not ours to see. Que sera, sera.

I sang it to myself because Doris Day in my morning baritone is hilarious to me. Also, I stopped at “Here’s what she said to me.” and just giggled to myself. “Oh, hell no, My darling. That ship has sailed, long before you were born.” Actually what I said was, “You better hope so because you aren’t getting any smarter.”, but I can’t illustrate a point with that.

Rich and pretty are temporary, much like ourselves. If I were Doris’ mother. I’d encourage her to get the candy and be happy. It’s just as transitory, of course, but why the hell not? Granted, that wouldn’t fit into the tune, so I guess it’s fine the way it is.

What will be, will be. You take what you can get.

That being said… Eat well. Love hard. Be kind. Embrace beauty. Live happily. Die satisfied.

Or not. Your call.