Obsolete Children, Part IV
It's almost Christmas. Every few years, my mom pulls out a picture of me standing in front of the Christmas tree, 5-year-old arms curled in my bestest Superman pose, and sporting a Superman outfit she had made by dying my thermal underwear and sewing a homemade 'S' on to the chest. It's so frickin' cute you could just pee. I think that was the time when I was happiest: Just before school, before divorce (insert latest dramatic statistic here), before I discovered there was more to want. I've always been a 'bounce back' kind of person that's managed to stay relatively positive and happy, but that time remains the rosiest.
So, with all of the things in my head and in this little bubble of a world I live in that make me feel old, what the hell difference does it make? It's all just an inevitable part of life, yes yes? Whether I like it or not, I'm going to be old and gray before I know it, wondering where the time went—along with the remote and my underwear—and laughing at how 'young people now' just don't get it. Right?
Right. There's no denying time and what it does. There's no fighting the fact that the skin of your grandparents will one day wrap your bones in the same way. My generation likes to think that medicine will increase life expectancy by the time we approach our limits, but let's be honest: The years I'm pissing myself are not the one I'll want to drag out. Or will I?
I guess that depends on the results of my inventory. When my life flashes before my eyes, is it going to be a movie I'm proud of? Something I'll want to share? Is it going to be like the most highly recommended flick of my film elitist friends, (i.e., Napoleon Dynamite) and then when I actually make it all the way through to the credits, I am going to be so pissed at myself for wasting the last 90 minutes of my life? Will they then, collectively, all have the seemingly conspiratory balls to tell me, "Yeah, but the second time…"
No. I think it's only fair to myself that I make it, without question, worth watching again. Worth recommending to people who you would prefer they continue to respect you after. It's my responsibility to continue pitching fits. Not because I don't get my way (and if I don't get my way, it's tantrum time and you better believe I'm capable of making everyone within earshot miserable! Oh, c'mon. You remember.), but because snapping into line purely out of habit isn't good for anyone.
This isn't a call for a 'long-hair' revolution. It's a statement: We haven't forgotten what being young felt like; STOP SMOTHERING IT. If you have a choice between writing songs and being a lawyer, write songs. More realistically, shoot rubberbands at your workmates. Leave a (preferably plastic) severed hand in your desk drawer. Switch letters on someone else's keyboard. Scare a loved one by hiding in a closet (unless you're gay and haven't told anyone; the irony would just be too overwhelming). Take long, aimless drives. The next time you say, 'Why doesn't someone just invent that?' shut up and do it. Create something. Camp out in the backyard. Record your voice mail message when you're drunk. Find pictures in the clouds; even if they're always dirty. Just once, when you meet someone new and they ask what you do, tell them you're part of the road crew for Sting. Never admit it's a lie. Next time it rains, walk slow. Anonymously send someone flowers with no note. Doodle. When you pass a park, stop to swing. Climb something. If you have to wear a suit to work, free-ball it on Tuesdays. Wear completely inappropriate undershirts. When you're in your car, see how loud you can sing. Grab a few friends and go bike riding at 3:30 in the morning.
Nothing will make you live forever, but there's plenty you can do to make your movie worth watching.
Pitch a fit now and then.