Dear Readers,

Today we are going to talk about rededicating ourselves. Listen up, folks. This is especially important if you're a caregiver. Even if you aren't!

I have found that, every once in a while, we have to sit down and admit that we're not quite as wonderful as we once were (or thought we were). Periodically, you see, it's necessary for us to set goals for ourselves, with an eye to reinstating ourselves as wonderful persons again.

Let me break that down for you. If you have never rededicated yourself (or even dedicated yourself, to begin with), I may be moving a little fast for you.

First of all, note that rededicating yourself is not a quest for perfection. You may recall that I pretty much condemned perfection in Chapter 19. (That was really fun. Reread it if need be. I think I really nailed it.)

Quite the contrary, you should first proudly admit that you are a mere mortal. (I sure am. This takes a big load off your shoulders right away, doesn't it?)

Then you should quickly confess (just to yourself, which makes it easier) that you have been dropping the ball in some particulars, and you sincerely want to improve yourself before someone else (your patient?) feels an urgent need to improve you.

(I am really big on avoiding conflicts and not blowing my top — or someone else's. Anger is an awful feeling. I have discovered much better ways to burn energy. You can, too.)

Okay. Now you are attitudinally prepared for self-rededication.

But I must warn you about trying to remake yourself totally.

Big mistake!

I did that when I first started rededicating myself, back in 1955. I was in my first year of college, at Long Beach City College in California. I was still living with my parents and not entirely pleased with how I was handling my multiple roles as son, brother, college student, weight-lifter, budding gymnast, and BMOC (Big Man On Campus). I thought the answer was to schedule myself every day, which would make me extraordinarily more efficient as a person.

I wrote it all down. Up at 6 every weekday morning. Lift weights from 6:15 till 7:05. Shower till 7:30. (I didn't start shaving till 1956. I was a real late bloomer.) Breakfast (usually peanut butter and apple sauce on toast) till 8 a.m. Pull on the clothes laid out the night before in a super-efficient manner. Then walk the mile and a quarter to LBCC in time for a half hour at the school library to organize my notebook and myself. Then attend my first class of the day, at 9 a.m.

You get the idea.

I had plotted out my every move for every waking hour with military precision.

Well, by the time I got to the library, I was so exhausted from the pressure I had put on myself, I dozed off while trying to absorb something academic in one of my text books. I was wiped out.

I walked back home and took a two-hour nap. Later that day, I tossed the activity schedule, and I was fine.

The moral to this story?

Self-improvement is fine, but don't get sickening about it.

I have learned so much since 1955.

Now, when I feel the urge to rededicate myself, I first tell myself that I am not really a bad guy and don't need a whole lot of fixing. Hey, what's the point of beating myself up and then overloading myself with tons of things to do to become some marvelously phenomenal person I will never be?

This keeps me from overreaching, you see? I determine a course of action that will enable me to make progress without crashing and burning. (Don't forget 1955. I never will.)

With all of the foregoing in mind, now follow me as I lay out my modest goals for self-rededication in 2018, some 63 years after that rescheduling disaster in my callow youth.

FIRST, I will call Merry Maids and have them deal with all the dust and dog hair in this old house. Yeah, I know. I should step up to better housekeeping myself, but, hell, I'm 80 years old, and I know after 3 years as caregiver to Rawbaw (my kid sister) I'm not going to win any “Homemaker of the Year” awards. It just isn't in me.

NEXT, I'll stop swearing. I swear a lot when I'm cleaning house. So, eliminating the expletives should be easier, once the Merry Maids get here.

THIRDLY, I will stop being petty. Whenever Rawbaw, who has dementia and poor eyesight, beats me at cards, I get pretty testy and start shuffling the cards so hard I bend them. This is pretty small of me. I'm better than that. All I have to do is say, “Well played!” or some other gracious expression that masks my bitter disappointment at losing. (It will also help me to say [out loud], “Well, sis, you can't win 'em all,” and maybe even chuckle. No, forget the chuckle. She would know it was forced. She has known me since 1940 and can read me like a book.)

(If, for some reason, I can't be nice while losing at cards, we can play more Scrabble. I usually cream her at Scrabble.)

FOURTHLY, I will be more diligent in providing a diet with plenty of variety. For instance, Rawbaw orders the pork scallion delivered from Dong Po's almost every time, and I think I can get her to switch off to sweet and sour pork (or sweet and sour chicken) once in a while. I'll try tonight.

LASTLY, I really should do better by her funky dog. Get her to the park for walks at least twice a week. Brush her fur every night, so all that dog hair will end up in a bag and not in the air we breathe. Feed her less food, too, before she starts looking like “Animal Planet” (i.e., perfectly round). I do love that labrador/shepherd mix, and there are many little ways I could show it.

Well, you get the idea.

When you see the need to rededicate yourself (usually every 3 or 4 months), you should do it in small steps. After all, most of us are only human.

I will let you know in Chapter 22 how much behavior modification I achieve after having shared the above details of my self-rededication to all of cyberspace. It really helps if you let people know your goals. Otherwise, you can quietly rationalize them all away, and nobody is the wiser!

(Like I said, most of us are only human.)

—Michael E. Hearons