I was watching a nature show the other day and this two-ton Great White shark was swimming around patrolling for seals off the coast of South Africa.

The shark’s head was all scarred and scraped up and the narrator said the wounds were the result of seal bites that the Great White had incurred during his hunting forays.

The nature show followed the Great White as it ate seal after seal, dispatching them with brutal precision and turning the water red time and time again.

Sometimes the Great White would come up from the depths with such force and velocity to chomp down on a seal that the shark would come completely out of the water … all 20-feet of him!

I could just imagine the poor seal thinking, “What th’?”

Me, I’m no expert on animals but as I’m watching I’m thinking to myself, “That Great White wasn’t born yesterday. That’s an old shark!”

Why?

All those old scars, bites and wounds.

Wound collecting is one of the signs of old age, which isn’t to say you have to be old to collect wounds.

A teen can collect wounds too; so can a kid.

Sullen teens and bratty kids are probably expert wound collectors.

See, perceived slights, wrongs and unfair treatment and such can be collected by anybody of any age, yet it’s probably easier for older people to be wound collectors since they’ve been around longer and had more things take a bite out of their face.

In “Great White shark” terms, I’m resolving this year to eat less “seals” in an effort to keep from getting my face chewed off, the result being me “swimming” around all scarred up and looking for the next thing to take a “bite” out of.

Here’s an example of what I mean.

I’ve been trying for months to get my garbage can repaired and get an upright recyclable container.

I’ve called the appropriate City Department numerous times and left my information with them over again.

The last time I called I was pretty much “Great White shark”; you know, I’d collected enough wounds over the matter; I was “snappish.”

As luck would have it, the lady who took my information (once again) said a guy was standing in her office right then who would take care of it.

Suffice it to say he hasn’t shown up to this point.

But here’s the positive side to this.

As per my new resolve to stop getting “bitten” in the face and “eating my heart out” over such matters, I’m “swimming” away.

I’ll just keep using the garbage can with one wheel; after all, it’s the city’s anyway, right?

I pay a nominal fee to use it but it’s theirs.

And whether I get an upright recyclable container is of no real importance.

If the small recyclable container I have fills up I can put the excess in the one-wheel garbage can.

Seriously, recycling Hawaiian punch containers seems small potatoes anyway compared to the ocean levels rising and the polar ice caps melting.

With my new attitude in place, I now realize that my preoccupation with insignificant sanitation containers was over the top to begin with and thank goodness the people at the city knew it and responded appropriately.

As a wound collector, I also failed to take into account that a Centennial Celebration was and is underway and celebrating the myriad accomplishments of the past naturally trumps the present.

One thing, though. No one should think that I’m completely wound free. I’m still a wound collector about some things.

What about Area 51 and aliens? Just be honest about it.

And the JFK assassination. Somebody just tell the truth, huh?

And the 1966 National Championship! What a rip-off! 

Bob Morgan is a retired, award-winning journalist and author.