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
No comments:
Post a Comment