Waxing Quixotic.

Confessions of a knight in tarnished armor.

My armor is getting a bit tarnished, my faithful white steed has developed a limp and is in desperate need of a bath. We both are tired. It’s exhausting to be expected to be perfect all the time and depressing to be treated as if we are deliberately antagonistic when we can’t be perfect. From this point forward, I will have to speak for myself only. The horse has told me that he will post an entry in his own blog.

I set out on my journey many years ago on the back of a strong Arabian stallion in beautiful new armor glistening in the sun. The world stood before me — a wilderness waiting to be conquered — full of the downtrodden in need of rescue. It was not long before I came across my first damsel in distress. The feelings of doing good and doing right were intoxicating and addictive. The more I saved, the more I craved the gratitude and recognition. But as my reputation grew and the word spread that there was a true Knight in Shining Armor (K.I.S.A.) roaming the countryside, things began to change. It became expected of me to be the perfect hero and fulfill the needs of everyone without having any needs of my own. And, since it was expected of me, the thanks and appreciation dwindled until it was taken for granted that in any emergency I would be there to fix things. It was no longer my calling, but simply my job.

It came to pass that the ravages of time and all the baggage that comes with experience, weighed heavily on my shoulders until I developed arthritis in my damsel-saving lance-holding arm. I needed to attend to my own infirmity before I could continue to save the world. I didn’t ask for help. At least not in the sense that I asked anybody to do anything beyond allowing me the time to convalesce. I was called selfish for it. I was accused of being lazy and irresponsible. I was accused of creating imaginary conditions to avoid my responsibilities. I felt abandoned by the people I had been serving for years. But, even in the face of the criticism and unwarranted accusations, I continue to do my best to live up to their expectations because it was my choice to join the K.I.S.A. service.

Time is a precious thing and I am finding that I am running out of it. So many damsels in need of rescuing and me, with an arthritic shoulder, a gimpy horse and unappreciative clientele leaves little time for armor polishing and horse washing. I do admit that I’ve neglected it so I could continue to fulfill my responsibilities. I considered taking on a young squire to perform these duties for me, but I would never impose this life on anyone. Especially since youth are drawn to its romantic allure but are too naive to realize that by the time they discover it’s a trap, it’s too late to escape. So, if a knight with a spot of rust or two on his breastplate, a little manure on his boots and a drooping lance rides into your village on a grayish horse with a limp, please be patient. He will get to you. Throwing tomatoes and calling him a slacker only slows down the process.