|
© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
|
The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, dollbuns.
So Far 03-Jan-2005 10:38 a.m.
My birthday is approaching. I still love my birthday; it is the one day of the year I feel I can do anything I want to do. Like go on a killing spree. But turning thirty was not my most beloved event, and each subsequent birthday has been somewhat sobering. I will never be twenty again; I will never have the opportunity to have my very first lover be someone who was not a jealous, wounded, selfish abuser. I cannot go back, and that leaves me somewhat crestfallen, standing on the edge of the cliff overlooking the future, harbouring some regret for what is behind me. At least I'm wearing a super-smart outfit.
God, regret scares the shit out of me. Not the regret I already experience, but the possibility of new regret. The fresh stuff. I don't want any of that, please. I will drive myself to the point of near lunacy trying to avoid it, smoothing out edges, trying to see into the future. I already have all the regret I can cope with, and some days that doesn't go so well. I don't need more.
I would like to make peace with my age and with the past. Since there is no way to stop one (and keep on living) or change the other, I have to look at both from a different perspective in order to experience something resembling tranquility in the presence of these subjects. I am capable of thinking new thoughts. I just really, really like the old ones; they're so comfortable and familiar, like an old coat. An old coat that makes you feel like a total loser, 'cause that's what you want in a coat...
Our society is pretty much in love with youth, and the definition of youth seems to be anything before the age of twenty-five. I think. Something like that. I recently heard a girl of twenty-five fretting over her impending birthday. What the hell??? (Sorry, lately I am sort of attracted to series of question marks. They resemble little question mark armies, and I just dig punctuation in uniform.) Sadly, this fixation we've developed has led to an unsettling trend among the "young" crowd, where so many of them believe their youth is something they will wear like a prize ribbon for the rest of their lives. Don't they know they'll be booted out soon enough, their ribbons ripped away from their lapels, left standing in the rain without even so much as a soggy cake to comfort them? I guess they didn't get the memo.
When I was below the age of twenty five, I had no idea I was young. I didn't think about it. I had many friends who were quite a bit older than I was, but I never considered myself a kid compared to them, nor did I regard them as old. I have never thought of people being their ages, or being limited by them. I do have a separate set of rules for myself, however. I have walked around this place reminding myself (and others, at times) how old I am, and how no one will ever take me seriously again. Reading that over, it sounds crazy. It used to be that no one took you seriously when you were a kid because you hadn't lived enough yet. Now, here I am at thirty-six, thinking no one will take me seriously because I am no longer twenty. That makes no sense. I am far more interesting now than I was sixteen years ago.
I can't change the fact that time—albeit seemingly imaginary—goes by, nor can I change the fact that it seems to move in a forward direction. So, I am trying to give myself a big fucking break. I've grown bored with being embarrassed about admitting my age to smug juveniles, fearing they'll think stuff like I'm young and fresh and you're just old and done. My age may be considered old to some of the more freshly-baked crowd, but I am hardly finished. I have much to say and more ways to say it now that I have lived this long.
The other day, my best friend said how lovely it was that we have been fortunate enough to live as long as we have. She's right. I look back at my life and see the miles and miles of memories. I have had a long life so far. I am grateful for that. Spending any amount of time damning the length of my life is a shameful activity I would like to refrain from engaging in further.
So, whatever the fuck age is attached to you, who cares? We age, every last one of us. We're doing that right now. Why not be grateful we're around to age at all? It sounds better than beating ourselves to the ground for something that will happen anyway. Letting your age define you is about as brilliant and helpful as letting your job define you, or any other outside circumstance. If anyone ever tries to dictate to you how you should have really thought about doing this or that when you were younger as opposed to now, please have them report to me. I will tape up their traps with this rockin' packing tape I have.
Age isn't something to be ashamed of, as if it's some horrible thing we've done. It's just something that happens. Life isn't always easy; some days it takes a huge amount of courage just to stay afloat. Most of us know the pain of losing someone we love in one way or another, and we go on, no matter how painful it is. We stick around, and that takes huevos. Sometimes it takes huevos rancheras muchos grandes, which is always delicious and good with coffee.
So, I dare you to start stating your age proudly if that has previously been difficult for you. In the scheme of things, it does not take anything away or add anything to you. It is simply a number, one of many we've come up with to try to keep track of things. It is not a punishment. You've been given an opportunity to kick around for a while, to see what you can see, do what you can do. The possibilities are endless. Remember, the world is your oyster and you are a salmon. No, wait. You are its pearl. Have yourself a great life, you pearly thing.
Quote From My World
"Ow! These egg fucking things are sharp!"
-a woman who forgets the word shells when being attacked by egg coverings
Well, I'm off to take a walk and stop counting the hours for a while. Time sort of slows down when you're out walking, and bits of worry fall off you and land on the ground like crunchy dead leaves.
Thanks for reading.
Linda
|
|
