Playing with Fire/Shake it Up, Baby

I'm playing with fire.

I'm hanging out just at the edge of "not such a great idea." I'm caught up in a game I know better than to play, but I'm playing it anyway. I'm intoxicated by the danger, the excitement, the possibility of a coming fall, that feeling of vertigo, that slim hope of a redemption, whatever redemption may be.

I'm holding my hands over the flame, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'm going to end up with scorched fingers. So why do it? I don't really know -- except that sometimes it feels so good to know that you can still feel that pain, that your skin hasn't gone numb.

Masochistic? Some might deem it such. Personally, I think it's got nothing to do with that. It's not about pain, it's about intensity. It's not about feeling bad -- or about feeling good -- but about knowing you can feel strongly at all.

I'm on a quest to pack as many intense experiences into my life as I can. Maybe when I'm old, I'll look back on that desire as a folly of youth. Maybe it's reckless and immature to think that's a wise way to live a life. But right now, I can think of nothing more worthwhile than to know every experience, every emotion, every situation I can.

I had a conversation with a friend the other day. I was making a joke about red wine hangovers - that terrible headache that comes with too much tannins - and she said that she'd never had a hangover. I've had enough bad ones in my day not to wish them on any soul -- except. Except, I found myself making the argument that I was glad to have had hangovers, of all varieties, because now I know what they are like. I argued that I thought it was important to my growth as a person to know what that level of drunk, and that level of post-drink regret, feel like, if only to be able to relate to others who have also had that experience. I argued that I was glad to have experienced food poisoning, and a car accident, and any other host of other awful, but temporary, things, because now I know what they are. I don't know if I actually believe my own argument - it did feel like one of those times I find myself taking a position simply to see where it goes - but I'm thinking about it. I somehow think there's a core of truth in all of that.

My life has been overdue for a good shaking. The little snow crystals have long since settled in, and it's time to flip the globe around and let them fall once more. I worry about too much stability. I worry about inertia, about slowing, about settling. I don't know if I'm simply more prone to it than most -- and thus feel the need to be continually on my guard about it -- or if I just fear it more than most.

My usual mode of operation is to pack my bags and set off somewhere else. I like to move, and I get antsy when I stay somewhere more than six months. I like the leaving. It shakes everything up. Makes me figure it all out all over again. I've been in Boston almost nine months now. That's a big deal to me. I like it here. I think I'm going to stay, at least for awhile. And I sort of think it might be a good idea for me to learn to stay in a place for more than a year. But it does mean I've got to figure out other ways to throw myself off-kilter every now and then.

So it feels good to be shaken. To be flipped around for awhile, and not to be sure what the landing will look like. And not to really care till I get there.

Nothing more, nothing less. It feels good to be shaken.

Loose Lips Sink Ships

Money quote of the day, from The Toronto Star... and about a billion other papers:

Bush uncharacteristically did not hesitate when asked about mistakes he had made since the March 2003 invasion.

"Saying `bring it on,'" he said, in reference to an ill-advised taunt to Iraqi insurgents in the summer of 2003.

"The kind of tough talk, you know, that sent the wrong signal to people. You know, I learned some lessons about expressing myself in maybe a little more sophisticated manner ... `wanted dead or alive,' that kind of talk."

Really? So he's learned that maybe, just maybe, before he goes shooting off his mouth cowboy style, he ought to think a little about what consequences his words might have on the rest of the world? Like, you know, that he might inspire insurgents to try harder to kill American troops in Iraq?

For all the BS about Democrats not "supporting our troops," I can't think of a single Democrat that has dared the world to try and hurt them. Bring it on, indeed, Mr. President...it's not like it's your body, or those of your daughters, on the front line, is it?

Well, at least he's learned his lesson.

Insert Ponderous Question Here

I just got done watching a few back episodes of Sex & The City…a guilty pleasure after a long, responsible Monday. Writing a blog posting after watching the show gets me a little self-conscious, however…inevitably, there’s the writing scene in every S&TC: Carrie poised at her laptop, hair perfectly tousled, staring off to the side with a look of introspection…and then she turns back to her keyboard to type the punch phrase of the night, “insert ponderous question that has the air and tone of being deep without actually achieving it here.” Whenever I write a posting, I’m a little afraid that’s going to be me.

But tonight I’m being ponderous and introspective, my heart filled with angst and Big Questions, ready to type out my deep thought of the evening (the wine that goes with S&TC viewing helps). Maybe if I’m self-mocking about it all, it won’t seem so contrived.

I turn back to the keyboard, and I write:
“When is something – or someone – worth fighting for?” (Cue music here).

Let’s see how much back story I can give out without giving away the proverbial cow (why call me when you can get the milk for free?) We’ll try generalities.

I’ve always been the type to give people space, freedom to do whatever it is they need to do. You want time? You’ve got time. Afraid to commit? No commitment needed. Someone on the side? Just don’t tell me about it. If I’m too young to be tied down – and I am – then I’m certainly too young to do any tying. I think people need what they need, and when they’re in their twenties, they may need to be selfish. Or confused. Or indecisive. Or whatever. Perhaps at my expense. But, then, sometimes I’ve probably been, or will probably be, selfish or confused or indecisive or whatever at someone else’s expense. It works out. If there’s anything I fear in a relationship, it’s holding someone else back.

I’m also pretty direct. If I like you…within a reasonably short period of time, I’ll say so. I’ve never seen the point of tip-toeing around things like that. (Thrill of the chase, blah blah blah. I’m just not so into that.) I think it’s always good to tell someone when you feel positively towards them. Even if they may not reciprocate, I’m sure it somehow makes the world a better place. (Doesn’t it make your day, just a little bit, if you find out someone is into you, even if you don’t feel the same? Especially if they make it clear that they have no expectations, that they just wanted you to know?)

So combine the two and you get this: when someone I like tells me they’re not sure, that they need time, that they’re not ready, I back off. Way off. I tell them to take their time, take their space. They know how I feel, and if they decide I’m what they want, they know where to find me. And that’s that. They know where to find me.

But let’s be honest, that hasn’t always worked so well.

Which brings me to tonight’s question: When is something – or someone – worth fighting for? When is it time to court? When is it time to kick in some effort, be John Cusaak and hold the stereo outside her bedroom window? Be Scarlett O’Hara, and track down your Rhett Butler? (I don’t care what he said, you know he gave more than a damn). Be Johnny Cash, and keep asking till she says yes? At least in the movies, there’s something a little endearing about the person that doesn’t take no for an answer. (That sentiment does not apply in the bedroom, FYI.) There’s something a little endearing about someone that cares so much for you, they’re willing to not only make an effort, but to truly put themselves out on the line.

So how do you know when they really need space, and when they’re really just asking you to put yourself on the line?

Oh, I’m so Carrie Bradshaw.

Blame it on the Rain, Part II

I was going to write a post about the rain. The never-ending, energy-draining, mind-numbing, havoc-wreaking rain. The rain that has gone on for at least a week now and is predicted to go on for at least another.

I was going to write about how I can’t seem to think or talk about anything else – and as just about every conversation I’ve had in the past four days has referenced the rain in some way, I’m clearly not the only one. How everywhere I go, I only see weary grey faces, exhausted bodies bracing themselves with their umbrellas flying every which way, hair dripping and pants sopping. How this town, already famous for its, um, unfriendliness, has gotten downright surly.

I was going to write about how it has felt like it was 6pm for about, oh, 120 hours now. How I’ve almost forgotten what sunlight feels like. How I can’t wake up in the morning and I’m ready for bed by 2pm. How, once home for the day or in for the weekend, I can’t make myself leave the house, be it to run errands, do my laundry, buy food, or socialize.

I was going to write about how I’m sick of carrying my umbrella around, and I’m sick of deciding, each morning, which pair of pants I feel like soaking in puddles today. I’m sick of frizzy bad hair days and schlumpy shoes. I’m sick of cars spraying me with water as they past – bastards! – and the T being over-crowded, damp, and dirty.

I was going to write about how bitter I am, that May seems to be a month lost to me. My favorite month, ruined. How I’m bitter that I’m still sleeping in sweatshirts and shivering under my blankets because my roommates feel that it’s simply ridiculous to turn the heat on in May (and it is!) even though it’s 59 degrees in my room. How I’m bitter that I survived the long, cold, wet winter with a minimum of complaints, only to be teased with a scant few beautiful, sunshiny days…and then to have my hopes and dreams of a lovely spring crushed by weeks and weeks of torrential downpours.

I was going to write about how, this time last year, I was in India, where it hadn’t rained for at least four months. And, yep, I complained…I complained about the 110 degree heat, heat that knocked you on your ass from at least 10am till 4pm every day, leaving you exhausted, dehydrated (no matter how much water you drank), dripping with sweat and unable to leave your bed or the fan blowing on you (at least until the electricity went out). I longed for rain clouds and rain puddles, for cool water falling on my face and a respite from the endless sun and heat. Oh, I had no idea how good I had it.

I was going to write about how I want to leave, how I can think of nothing but leaving. How I am longing, longing, to be somewhere there is sun, and flowers, and smiling people. How I am cursing my choice to move to New England - New England! - when I could have moved anywhere I wanted. Why didn't I pick California? Or DC? Or, you know, India? Who cares that I moved to a city with culture and restaurants and vitality and friends and energy and life? I'm not enjoying any of it. All I'm doing is sitting in my cold, over-priced apartment cursing the rain. I could do that for a lot less money almost anywhere else.

I was going to write about all of this, primarily because I cannot think of anything else.

But then, this morning, Brian McGrory did it for me.

At least I know I'm not the only one.

Blame it on the Rain

As an update to my last post, this has apparently been the weekend for gaining sympathy for criminals of various ilk...I (finally) watched Capote yesterday, and I read Joyce Carol Oate's Zombie today, an incredibly disturbing book written in the voice of a serial rapist/killer. Nothing like a dark, depressing, rainy weekend for cuddling up with some books & movies about psychopaths.

Capote, by the by, was brilliant, in case you're the other person on the face of the planet who hasn't yet seen it. I was rooting for Heath Ledger at the Oscars, but in the first 30 seconds of watching this movie, it became clear to me that Phillip Seymour Hoffman's win was well-deserved. I also thought the man playing Perry Smith - the death-row murderer Capote befriends and betrays for his novel In Cold Blood - gave an exceptional performance.

Zombie was less brilliant, but about ten times more disturbing. I'm not quite sure why I picked this weekend to read it...it's been sitting on my shelf for about two years now (picked it up with a dozen or two other books at a garage sale or library sale or something sometime back), and I didn't even know what it was about till I opened it up last night. When it rains, it pours, I suppose. (In keeping with this weekend's theme of rain, rain & more rain.) The book traces the thoughts of a serial killer over a several month period, setting you voyeuristically on his shoulder as he abducts, rapes, attempts to lobotomize, and eventually kills a series of young black men. The man's name is Quentin, and the novel is written in a style incredibly reminiscent of the Benjy section of The Sound & The Fury....I'm trying to decide if that is purposeful or coincidental. (And this highlights the main difference that not being in college makes in my life...in college I would have researched that idea and written a paper on it. Now, I think about it absentmindedly for a moment and put up a line on my blog about it.) Anyway, I'm not going to go so far as to say I enjoyed the book, or that I thought the writing was all that great, but it was definitely food for thought.

On an entirely unrelated note, I wanted to recount an odd encounter I had at a party this Friday. I met an incredibly attractive man that, in a rare occurrence, became even more attractive the more he talked. Very smart, very witty, very beautiful. (Also very taken, which didn't concern me a whole lot, as I'm currently considering myself sort-of-kind-of-not-really-on-the-market at the moment anyway - yes that is a category! In other words, this felt like a very harmless, non-action-provoking flirtation.)

And then he stood up and walked across the room. Turns out, the man is bowlegged...or has a leg or hip injury...or something. Whatever it is, he had a very unusual gait, one that would not normally be considered sexy.

But oh, was it ever. Every time the man walked across the room that night, ostensibly awkward but with no sign of it on his face, I sort of wanted to jump him. Which came, frankly, as a bit of a surprise to me every time.

I think it's a little problematic that I was surprised by my own reaction to this situation. I don't think it's a good thing to automatically assume a disability is a turn-off, to assume that someone with a disability will have a harder time with the ladies (or the gents) because of it....but let's face it, clearly that is exactly the assumption I had. A man with a limp will not equal attractive, right? We pity people with "abnormal" physical features, we don't want to sleep with them. So go this guy, for challenging my assumptions without even knowing he was doing it. Also, go this guy for being hot. Well done.

Just re-read this and realized I have absolutely no connecting theme whatsoever. (I swear I am not trying to draw a connection between serial killers and the disabled, by the way.)

Whatever. Connecting themes are over-rated. Blame it on the rain.

Vengeance is Mine, Sayeth the Lord

I'm not at all religious, but that is one verse that, to me, rings true.

The band manager whose actions led to the nightclub fire in Providence, Rhode Island a few years back -- killing 100 people -- was sentenced yesterday to four years in prison. The man, who has admitted to setting off a pyrotechnics display that caused the fire, has also said he had no idea the fireworks would start a fire, or that they fire would spread so quickly, or that there wouldn't be enough exits in the event of a fire. He has apologized repeatedly and seems to feel pretty intense anguish and regret over the incident. He was negligent, clearly, and acted without thinking, obviously - but it also seems clear that there was no ill intent in his actions. This was an accident.

What has been amazing to me about this case is the reaction of the families. 100 people died. 100 families lost loved ones. I know the pain, the sense of loss, the sense of robbery, the feeling of injustice at these needless, preventable deaths must be incredibly intense for every person affected. I'm sure that their grief is deep and real.

But what person who has lost a family member in a particularly tragic manner -- be it the mother who lost her second son to violence in Boston this past week, the family that lost their 26-year old daughter to a repeat drunken driver, or, as in this case, families that lost their loved ones due to the negligence and stupidity (but not malice) of one man -- does not feel this way? Who would not feel anger and sadness?

Yet -- at least from the quotes in the media, which, granted, may well be skewed -- the families in this case seem to have taken it to a whole other level. Many got on the stand and "described a grief so intense they could not get out of bed, and said they looked forward to nothing but reunited in death." One particularly vitriolic (and clearly distraught) woman yelled to the defendant's mother, ''What do you think of your son now?", going on to claim she felt satisfied that the man's parents would now have to suffer as she had suffered for the loss of her daughter. The reactions, almost across the board, were hateful and rage-filled. They were looking for vengeance, not justice.

Contrast this with the reactions of most of the families after Moussaoui was sentenced last week to life in prison instead of the death penalty. There was general calm, even relief that they would be spared years of appeals. There was some anger, sure, but most of the families seemed to feel as though justice was served. The jurors on that case demonstrated that despite the intense emotions surrounding 9/11, it was possible to reach a decision based not on a desire for revenge, but on a desire for what was just. That was a fine day for our criminal justice system.

To me, this case in Rhode Island speaks to the heart of what we believe our justice system is for. Is it to punish or protect? Do we send people to jail or put them to death to prevent future crimes or deter potential criminals? Or is it to exact some sort of punishment, some sort of retribution for wrong-doing? Is it about taking an eye for an eye, or is it about ensuring that we all can see?

Probably a little of both. Someone who intentionally commits a horrendous crime probably ought to be punished. And we need a way to deter people from committing actions that could harm others -- like driving drunk -- whether the intent is to harm or not.

Yet in this case, four years seems like a long sentence. Whatever punishment this man deserves, surely the guilt he will carry with him for the rest of his life will suffice. Is putting him in jail going to deter him from starting fires in nightclubs again? Well, possibly, but it seems pretty clear this man is not otherwise a menace to society. We are not any safer by putting him in jail. And I highly doubt that if this man were to be given a lighter sentence -- community service, for example -- that other band managers would feel they could now "get away" with being negligent with their safety checks. Society gains nothing by putting this man in jail, except for satisfying society's apparent need for retribution.

There is a reason we don't allow victims and their families to decide the fate of those who have wronged them. The human need for vengeance is strong, but justice has nothing, nothing to do with vengeance.

Who Talks About AIDS Anymore?

The latest Newsweek has a huge special report on the AIDS Epidemic: "AIDS at 25." It's filled with stories on the history of the disease and the newest treatments, the world-wide epidemic and profiles of people with HIV. It's timely, I suppose, what with the anniversary of the first documented cases of AIDS in being twenty-five years (1981) this year.

Yet while I was reading it, all I could think was, "Who talks about AIDS anymore?"

Seriously. When was the last time you went to an AIDS benefit or saw a showing of the AIDS quilt? What was the last groundbreaking new play or movie or novel or song about the AIDS epidemic? When was the last time you wore a red ribbon?

AIDS was the epidemic of the 1990's. AIDS was Rent and Angels in America. It was the Quilt on the National Mall and every star wearing red ribbons at the Oscars. It was Magic Johnson and Ryan White.

In 2006? We have not yet found a cure, but many people diagnosed as HIV-positive are going on to live long lives, thanks to the various "AIDS cocktails" on the market. The spread of AIDS has slowed, thanks in no small part to the increase in condom usage. AIDS isn't the national pandemic, the great tragedy, that it was in the 1980's and 1990's...at least not in this country.

So we don't talk about it as much any more. Pardon the phraseology, but as diseases go, AIDS isn't so sexy any more. (It's been surpassed by the yellow-armbanded prostate cancer and the pink-ribboned breast cancer, among others). There aren't as many rallies and protests. There isn't as much fundraising and celebrity campaigning. Can you name one celebrity today closely associated with the AIDS movements? Elizabeth Taylor doesn't count! Today's celebrities have moved on to poverty (Bono) and politics (Clooney, Affleck, Goldbergh, Stone...oh, take your pick. They're all against Bush these days).

I'm not saying AIDS has been solved or that it isn't a national tragedy -- with more than 25 million living with HIV in Africa, not to mention over 8 million in Asia and over a million here in the United States, it's clear not only that the problem is huge, but growing. But we don't treat it as such any more. Most of us worry more about getting bird flu than HIV. If we are religious about using condoms, it probably has more to do with being worried about getting pregnant or catching some unnamed STD than it does about catching AIDS specifically...or it's simply because, as children of the 80's and 90's, we were socialized to believe that having sex, unless you're married or something, means using a condom, no questions asked. Regardless, AIDS does not present the major fear or motivation that it once did, at least not to us sheltered white social liberals.

Slowly but surely, AIDS is changing from a "gay" disease to a "black" disease. We no longer assume that someone with AIDS is gay, and while AIDS is still and may forever be associated in many ways with the gay community, fact is, this isn't a disease contained within any one community any more. (Besides, it stopped being PC to write AIDS off as a gay disease somewhere around 1996).

That hasn't stopped us from 'othering' the AIDS virus, however. But now, instead of being that disease that happens to gay people, it's that disease that happens to black people. Specifically, black people in Africa, that far away hotbed of war, poverty, and disease, filled with people we don't know and don't understand. More people are becoming infected with HIV every single day in Africa than we could ever imagine -- there are areas of Africa where a full third of the population is HIV+, and that number is growing. Yet it's not something we talk about. Aside from a few news articles now and again, it merits very little attention in the media. (Even the Newsweek cover story focused more on Americans living with HIV than the 25+ million Africans who have it.) It is, after all, something that is happening "over there." It's not our disease anymore.

The face of AIDS may have changed in the past 25 years, but not its effect -- apparently, AIDS is still the way our society gets to write off populations of people we don't want to care about ...gay men, intravenous drug users, promiscuous women, urban poor...and now whole Third World countries.

Pick Me! Pick Me!

I have a confession to make. I am a Craigslist addict.

(Oh, don't scoff. You know you browse it, too. What's your scene? Missed Connections? Free furniture? Erotic services?)

Worst of all, I am absolutely addicted to reading the "Men Seeking Women" ads. (Yeah, okay, and when I'm really bored the Women Seeking Men and the Women Seeking Women and sometimes, for kicks, Misc Romance. Never the Men Seeking Men ads, though….far too many unwanted, er, crotch shots to sort through. Well, wanted by someone, I'm sure….but not by me.)

I'm not even looking for a date, per se. Ok, sure, occasionally I will see some witty, well-crafted posting – likely including a reference to Hemingway or Kundera or some other of my favorite authors, full of slightly self-mocking humor, and, of course, with perfect grammar -- and think, for about two hours, that I've found my soul mate. (I don’t even believe in soul mates, but that’s another discussion). A few times, allowing hope to triumph over experience yet again, I've sent out a reply and gone on a date. (Abject failures, all. So it goes.) But that's beside the point…because while I have gone out on Craigslist dates (I'm not too proud; I'll admit it!), I don’t read the boards in hopes of finding one.

No, see, I am just fascinated by these postings. It's like watching a car wreck – they're tragic, they're bloody, they tear your heartstrings. You know you shouldn't look but you just can't take your eyes away.

I'm fascinated by the way people choose to present themselves. By the atrocious spelling and terrible, awful, grainy, is-that-really-your-best-picture digital camera photos. By the cocky posts and by the desperate ones…the "I'm the hottest man around, no seriously, I never have any problems picking up girls I'm just bored and you'd better be hot because I am did I mention that?" posts and the "are there any smart, cute girls on here? Any? Will I die alone?" posts.

I'm fascinated by the way that everyone's worst qualities eventually manifest in their posts. "I'm a really nice guy and I like everyone. Please be smart and funny and oh please just don't be fat. I'm not trying to be mean I just don't like fat chicks." (Because I'm sure all the smart, funny, not-fat chicks are so attracted to you now.)

I’m fascinated by the number of people that think an entirely generic, three-line ad – something along the lines of “I’m a SWM, 26, funny, nice, normal, attractive guy. I like going to bars and watching red sox games. Looking for a cute, slim/athletic girl that likes to have fun” – is going to get them a response. (And I’m being generous with my description…many of them say even less than that.)

I'm fascinated by the very repetitiveness of the boards. You read these often enough – and, oh, I do – and you begin to see patterns. Serial posters and copy-cat posters, yes, but you can even see patterns emerge among the 'first time posting' crowd. Everyone, it turns out, is sick of the bar scene. Everyone likes to go out sometimes but also likes to stay in. Everyone 'can't believe they're online looking for a date.' (Oh, please, get over it. Seriously, that might have worked back in 1995, but these days? C'mon.) Everyone, it seems, wants a 'partner in crime.' (Who knows how high the crime rate would go if all these people found each other?)

And every now and then, of course, you get an interesting ad. Those are fascinating, too. Something catchy and clever. Something funny. Something a little original. There’s a guy right now doing a running countdown of postings…he’s putting up one per day for the next year, or until he finds his true love. I can’t decide whether I feel bad for him or whether I want to ask him out. (He’s 54, so I’m probably not actually going to email him. But conceptually, I find his unassuming, what-the-hell approach intriguing.)

Whenever I read these boards a little too often, however, I start to do some math. I look around me – in the elevator, on the street, at bars – and I think, surely I have read postings written by people in this room. This guy I’m chatting with – he is the one who posted that really sketchy “Generou$ Guy Looking to hang out with a $weet $exy College $tudent” ad this morning. This girl over there – she wrote one of those really asinine posts about just LOVING THE RED SOX!!!!!! and LOOKING FOR A GOOD MAN WHO WON’T PLAY GAMES!!!!! I am surrounded, absolutely surrounded, by the people who have written the postings I mock all day long.

The anonymity of the internet is a strange, strange thing.

Today I Paid Ten Dollars for an Umbrella

This is why it so expensive to live in a city. Forget astronomical housing costs. Forget a tight, tight job market that allows employers to pay us far less than a) we deserve and b) we can afford. Forget, even, the fact that I’ve come to view $4 for a beer as a bargain. (Oh! Quarter Beers. Oh! $1 Well Drinks at the Feve. Oh! $1 PBR’s any-night-o-the-week.)

It’s because “convenience” stores like CVS can get away with charging $10 for an umbrella. A flimsy, useless umbrella that will either fly up with the first strong gust of wind or (more likely), I will misplace, as I have misplaced, within two weeks of purchase, every other umbrella I’ve ever bought.

And I paid it. How could I not? I was soaking wet and it’s expected to rain for days. And it’s not like I can easily make a trip to Target, or, hell, Walmart (a pox upon thee…though I’m beginning to understand the allure of, among other things, your cheap umbrellas.) Nope, I’m stuck with CVS and its $10 umbrellas.

Oh, I even shopped around. At the CVS in Jamaica Plain this morning, they wanted $15. I was stubborn. I stuck it out. I refused, on principle, to drop $15 on an umbrella, even if it was raining so hard I could barely see five feet in front of me and my hair was already a frizzy, sopping mess.

By the afternoon, on my lunch hour, the price had apparently dropped. (The rain, also, had let up a bit. Coincidence? I think not.) I gave in. Ten dollars! Ten dollars.

Slowly but surely, I’m being priced right out of the city. The one dollar cans of soda, dollar-seventy subway rides (thanks, MBTA!) and ten dollar umbrellas are adding up. A few more rainy weeks (and a few more ten-dollar-replacement-umbrellas), and I’m moving to the suburbs.










Just kidding.

On Feeling Oh-So-Old at 24

I turn 24 tomorrow. Actually, in about one hour.

(That’s not a “don’t you want to wish me Happy Birthday?” plea. I mean, you know, don’t you? But seriously, it’s just something I need to establish for the premise of this post).

I spoke with my mother tonight. She told me that 25 years ago – when she, too, was 24 – she thought she might be pregnant. It turned out to be a false alarm…or, rather, a false hope. As it turns out, my mother was hoping to be pregnant. (Three months later, approximately nine months before I was born, she would be).

Hoping to be pregnant. Trying. It’s a stage of life I still can’t even begin to imagine – and yet at 24, she was the last of her friends not to have a child. She’d been married for almost five years, out of college for three, settled into a permanent job, with a car (station wagon!) and a home (a fine trailer located on prime trailer park real estate in Allegany, NY – yes, I can proudly reclaim the name “trailer trash” as my own….). She was ready.

I’m pretty sure that if any of my friends were to have a child in the near future, I would be a little embarrassed for them. Supportive? Sure. Ready to play the doting aunt? Of course. But still – I’m sure the thought would cross my mind….how did you let that happen? I can’t imagine a situation where congratulations would be the first thing I would think to say.

It was hard enough for me when I realized, as I turned 20, that when my mother hit that milestone, she was engaged to be married within a few months. At age 20, I hadn’t yet found someone I could stay with for longer than six months (oops….four years later, still haven’t crossed that one), let alone someone I would want to stay with for the rest of my life. But if I thought it was scary, at 20, to envision myself tied down to another adult for all eternity, I had no idea how terrifying it would be to think of myself at 24, ready to be given the life-long responsibility of taking care of another human, a child, who could not care for themselves. To truly be responsible for not just my life, but his or hers as well.

At 24, I’m feeling ancient. Tied down by credit card debt and health insurance, vacation days and a lease. Ready for bed by 11pm. Disarmingly, disquietingly stable.

Yet look how young I am! I move from city to city, apartment to apartment, job to job, even country to country, all with (relative) ease. I go out, I flirt, I date as I feel like – frequently or infrequently, many at once, one at a time, or none at all. Whatever I want. My life, my time, my schedule…as much as I may consider myself constrained by the limitations a steady job and the rest of reality imposes, I really am very free to come and go as I feel. My life is mine and mine alone.

My mother – and many women of her generation – experienced none of this. Nor did she seem to want to. I know, at least, that she doesn’t regret any of the choices she made. What is it about me, about my generation, that we have decided, on the whole, that we do want all this? That marriage and a child before the age of thirty (at a bare minimum) is a state of affairs to be confused by…if not embarrassed by. That while we may dramatically bemoan our antiquity at 24, we really have chosen the youngest path we can find…and we know it?

And more importantly….is this a good thing, or a bad thing? When we reach my mother’s age, will we be able to say that we don’t regret any of the choices we made? That these years of extended youth were worth it, were the way life should be lived?