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Monday, July 8, 2013

Achin' All the Time, All the Time.

My last three jobs were at a cardboard box factory, a taco shop, and an all-purpose pet care facility. [No lesbian and box/taco/bitches jokes, ok?] Each of those jobs employs a pretty specific type of human. Except the box factory. They hired me as a favor to my mother, who feared I would die of starvation if left to find gainful employment on my own. The majority of my coworkers wore cargo shorts and bandannas or called everybody “man” or “dude”. They’re the kids who play ultimate Frisbee, drink PBR, and nurse an unhealthy obsession with Bukowski.

Since moving to Portland, I’ve met enough people outside my age demographic to realize “what’s your major?” and “can I get you a drink?” are not the only conversation starters. I’ve discovered that knitting, gardening, and poultry care require extensive knowledge of a lingo I’m not privy to. And. At least once or twice a week someone laughs, looks me in the eyes and says, “Don’t get old, Brenda. Getting old is the worst.” 


Generally they make this assertion after regaling me with stories about creaking knees, irritable bowels, turbulent divorces, or the difficulties of surviving everyday life. They chuckle to themselves, like really it’s the best joke and I’ll understand Someday.

This statement makes me wonder:
1.       What are alternatives to getting old?
2.       How can I gracefully respond in this situation?
3.       …Seriously, what the hell? There’s no viable alternative here.

Listen. Telling someone “don’t get old” is like saying “hope to see you soon” at a hospital. Generally I laugh uncomfortably and change the subject, because as much as I love talking about colonoscopies, no. No, I don’t like that at all. And I certainly don’t like contemplating the fact that someday very soon my own colon will be a ticking time bomb that needs to be probed and tested for malignant cells. Every television show, movie, music video, and magazine cover already warns me to avoid aging the way Tom Cruise avoids calm, logical conversations: violently, with lots of exuberant jumping.
  
One response I’ve given in the past with limited success was, “Don’t worry, I don’t intend to.” The upside to this response is that they laugh uncomfortably, while trying to figure out if I’m mentally unstable enough to be telling the truth. Another is “Oh, that doesn’t sound so bad” or a variation of that theme (ex. “Well I’ve already got the knees of an old lady, I’m just waiting for the rest of me to catch up!”).

So far as I can deduce, this comment intends to solicit:

Validation? Your misery deserves my undivided attention. Clearly you have it much worse than the rest of us. Your body’s inability to process food without extraordinary gastronomic distress is horrifying. You’ve earned the right to half-heartedly conceal it/unapologetically discuss it even though I’m sitting here flinching like you’re shooting lawn darts into my knee caps.

Reassurance? Them’s harsh digs. I’m sure you’re just having an off day? Except… you know yourself better than I do. I have no reason to question that. You really think your mind has started to slowly shrivel up like the last grape in the bottom of the bag towards the back of the refrigerator? Those things don’t even turn into raisins, man. They just become mushy little piles of icy mold waiting to ambush you when you’re drunk and mindlessly searching for anything edible. I mean, damn.

Empathy? Maybe the appropriate response to that story would be a story about my own creaky joints… Misery loves company right? We can both talk about how Life slaps us around like a kitten wearing a tiny hat. That ought to make us both feel better.

I am 24 years old, and I know this life is rarely predictable. Our bodies disappoint us; they are imperfect fallible things. People disappoint us, because they are imperfect fallible things too. There are no guarantees, only warranties and even those tend to be time sensitive. But I'm trying to shift my perspective here. Because sometimes sunrise looks like a cupcake. Sometimes you pick raspberries in the backyard with sun on your shoulders, your fingers stained and your mouth singing summer songs. 

And sometimes pug puppies. Don’t forget about pug puppies.


Hey. Let’s get old together, ok?

-b  


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