On this, the eve of my half-life, I once again find myself attempting to shoo away adulthood with a hand not-yet-arthritic-but-most-certainly-on-the-path-to-it. I play freeze tag with seriousness until I’m cold and stiff and moving not quite at a tortoise’s pace before bursting forth with a giggle and slapping it gently on the bum. I procrastinated through my youth until it ran out and now I engage with all of those kiddie things while pretending to behave upstandingly in an adult world roughly helmed by children. My secret identity is ignominiously infantile and my humor is pleasantly prurient. I have four personae, all of which are tied together at the navel, twisting off each other’s air supply while grasping for attention. Pick me! No, me! And the others sneak through the door behind the chosen one’s shadow, but they’re so obviously there that it’s funny, and no one seems to mind too much – or at least they tolerate the pageant. All four like to dress up, then clean that mess up.
I never thought I’d be here and now, over there and far away; never figured I’d make it to this time, but who does? It’s still strange to say the word “wife”, to say the word “forever”, to think that battlefields are in my backyard and the moss is often soft enough to sleep upon. My crushes are now my colleagues and there are cats strewn every-which-way as I walk from room to room between brain breaks on old floorboards that squeak with each step. My will has real names on it; my thinking becomes more open and rigid all at the same time. My patterns have gone plaid. These long-germinating dreams, all rooted in fantasies and adventures and tiny, tiny handwriting in all capital letters made it this way. It wasn’t her nor him, but how not to be a drain, or be a pain, but to be true past the end. My chemicals are mixed up and sometimes it’s insufferable, but I paint it out and it leaves me like a miasmic exhale as the cavalcade of colors connects all those synapses and cradles me in its huemanity. So I don’t talk about it much.
Tomorrow I will be different, but still a baby, still a beginner, still a novice. The things I say are pointed and polemical and I cringe in the mirror sometimes as the lines get thicker and the colors slowly, infinitesimally fade away, my greatest ungrounding and undoing. There is still so much room for being bigger and better and brighter, and I’m so sincerely very sorry to have not been more of what my potential had proposed, and for all of the other times I have disappointed. I am especially sorry for those. But somehow I am still loved by exactly the right people, and I have given much of that which I have promised and I have no regrets (yet) and hope never to have so. The fear of death should grow as the shadows go long and this is what I most find amusing; that sickness and goodbyes are assured but I am less terrified now because every day I think that if I were to go long tomorrow I would still be the luckiest whatever that ever rolled a handful of those pretty polyhedrals.
This eve, just before the moment of my half-life, I am the same as I will be tomorrow, but young. Tomorrow I will be the same and old, and will probably act the same but younger, I warn you of this. I will not kick and scream while crossing that divide, but I will indeed tease and play and titter, and may ask you to come along for a little while, and if I do not, I hope that you will remind me to. Nothing has really changed.
One Response to “The Last Day of Nothing”
April 30th, 2013 at 12:22 pm
Well said, my friend. Welcome to old! Come on in, the water is fine if you don't mind the pee.