Dashing–

If you know my writing style at all, you know that I am super fond of using (parentheses), exclamation points!!! and-especially-dashes. Reading a paragraph of mine is an exercise in breathlessness, as you (the reader) zip along from idea to idea—much as you are doing right now!!!  Now, I am probably a wee bit too dependent on these punctuational flourishes, and the taciturn Hemingway no doubt would spin in his grave like a chicken on a rotisserie spit if he read my prose. Though I do try to be disciplined, my faves creep in anyway. Right now, the semicolon is having a moment; I’m pretty sure, however, the dash will eventually win the day.

The dash is also used to separate date of birth and date of death on headstones. When I stroll through a cemetery, I get a chuckle out of family monuments where good old Dad’s name and DOB are pre-carved, with a dash and then nothing (yet). It looks like a macabre version of “Wheel of Fortune,” where passersby might take their best guesses about his expiration date, and maybe win a valuable prize. As for me, I’m currently torn among “donated to science,” “scattered out at sea,” and “used as human mulch”—in any event, pretty sure I will go headstone-less.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t often consider that enigmatic dash, representing the totality of my lifespan. There’s a famous poem, called (surprise!) “The Dash,” which is often read at funerals (including Senator Bob Dole’s service). I’ll spare you a recital, but the gist is that what matters most is “how we spend our dash.” Poetic value aside, “The Dash” serves an important purpose, reminding us to make the most of every minute we have here on earth.

Therefore, I’m announcing ways I will no longer be spending my dash. They include:

*Dusting baseboards, ironing, and other super-pointless housekeeping tasks. My motto: if it doesn’t bother me, why bother at all?

*Answering ANY phone call from “unknown number.” I don’t even enjoy hearing from most of the “knowns,” so why subject myself to Mr. or Ms. Robocall?

*Finishing books I dislike. I used to plug along no matter what, which was a huge time-suck. Now, after the first chapter, I flip to the last page, and ask myself, “Do I really care about what happens on pages 10-226?” If the answer isn’t a resounding “yes,” I call it quits.

*Self-checkout, anywhere. I’m terribly slow at this, and I deeply resent having to search for the various barcodes to scan. If I’d wanted to work at Acme, I’d apply.

*Games—board, ball, card. And no, I won’t love them when I get the hang of them.

Exotic travel, wonderful theatre, concerts, gourmet meals—all eminently dash-able. I’m noticing, however, that none of these come cheap. So I guess the answer to “how will I spend my dash?” is “I’ll put it on my Amex!”

Until next time, my friends, happy mortality-pondering. Gotta dash!