Monday, May 24, 2004
Spinning Silently
There was this woman who came to my wedding reception (the ceremony was private and in the Bahamas). And near the end of the night, when I was pretty drunk and happy, just as excited as I hoped for, she comes up to me -- she's about to leave, see -- and she doesn't say congratulations or any of that jazz. She just says, "Well, you're really old now. You're not 19 anymore."
To which I thought, "Huh?" She might as well have come up to me and said, "Hey, I use gas in my car." At the time I hadn't been 19 for six years. It was as if she had planned exactly what she was going to say (and between you and I, web log audience, I think it's pretty clear her opinion on my marriage was not one of joyous approval), as if she was really trying to upset me.
But I don't understand this business of people getting upset about getting old. There's nothing like getting true enjoyment from walking downstairs to pick up the newspaper in the morning. Or that feeling of relief once the house is clean.
When I was 19 I puked out of a state-owned van. One cannot go through life like that for more than a few years. Well, I suppose one could, but then I would have to have a real high tolerance for personal shame and embarrassment.
So you can imagine my response to this less-than-thrilled attendee: "Well, yeah. That would be true. I am not 19. Thank you for coming. Drive safely."
Her face looked like that of a little kid who just discovered that those people on her favorite show -- they were just actors; their house was just a half-built set that tourist buses pass every day in California. It was that disappointing to her.
What could I say? Yeah. I'm old. But how old could I really get? I mean, physically, I'll just keep going, sure. But if I'm 80 and I'm still saving one of each colored M&M to eat last, for no better reason than I just have to have them all lined up, and somewhere in my head I've convinced myself that each has its own specific taste -- then how old could I really ever be?
To which I thought, "Huh?" She might as well have come up to me and said, "Hey, I use gas in my car." At the time I hadn't been 19 for six years. It was as if she had planned exactly what she was going to say (and between you and I, web log audience, I think it's pretty clear her opinion on my marriage was not one of joyous approval), as if she was really trying to upset me.
But I don't understand this business of people getting upset about getting old. There's nothing like getting true enjoyment from walking downstairs to pick up the newspaper in the morning. Or that feeling of relief once the house is clean.
When I was 19 I puked out of a state-owned van. One cannot go through life like that for more than a few years. Well, I suppose one could, but then I would have to have a real high tolerance for personal shame and embarrassment.
So you can imagine my response to this less-than-thrilled attendee: "Well, yeah. That would be true. I am not 19. Thank you for coming. Drive safely."
Her face looked like that of a little kid who just discovered that those people on her favorite show -- they were just actors; their house was just a half-built set that tourist buses pass every day in California. It was that disappointing to her.
What could I say? Yeah. I'm old. But how old could I really get? I mean, physically, I'll just keep going, sure. But if I'm 80 and I'm still saving one of each colored M&M to eat last, for no better reason than I just have to have them all lined up, and somewhere in my head I've convinced myself that each has its own specific taste -- then how old could I really ever be?
