I don’t like lists. Lists are for sissies. People without a sense of adventure write lists. People who are afraid to wing it write lists. Sometimes in the grocery store I’ll see another geezer, like myself, but peering at a list in his hand. “Wing it,” I tell them. “Put some mystery in your life.”
Those guys usually say that they’ll forget something. I tell them, “Well, it’s another excuse for gettin out of the house for a while, then.”
My ex wife was a serious list maker. But she had to be. She was the stage manager for the three dinner theaters we ran in Lauderdale By The Sea, North Miami Beach, and Boca Raton. In addition to those three theaters there as always another play in rehearsal as we rotated the shows through the chain. Her job would have been impossible to accomplish without lists. I know that.
I went to do some grocery shopping the other day. No list, of course. When I got home I discovered I hadn’t bought cream cheese for the bagels. No carrots or potatoes for the pot roast though I DID buy the onions. I wanted bacon to add flavor to the chicken livers that were sitting in the fridge, but NOOOOO!
I’ll go get those things when I leave The Swamp off the Saint Johns River in Central Florida tomorrow but I’ll be damned if I’m going to make a list to take with me.