Po
Boy Views
By
Phil
LaMancusa
Rinse
and Repeat
Or
Aging
(Dis) Gracefully
Subjectively, no one grows old in increments; one day,
all of a sudden, you see your reflection in a mirror (or in someone else’s
eyes) and you ask yourself who that old person is, and it’s you. Of course you
make light of it “shucks, if I knew I was gonna live this long, I
woulda taken better care of myself (diet, finances, exercise, dentistry,
dreams, aspirations, family commitments, love and/or life in general)!” That sarcasm
doesn’t wash well as a rationale, and even you can see the flaws in it, so you
lose yourself in memories and the memories of the different bodies that you’ve
inhabited along the way. Ponder, if you will: time is a thief; it steals all of
the selves that you ever were.
What is your earliest memory? Is it being tossed in the air
(and caught) by some big person, being cuddled, being suckled; standing in your
crib crying because your diaper is full, you’ve just woken up and you’re alone
in a dark room? Perhaps your memories don’t go back that far.
How about the feeling of being little around bigger
people; learning, in a group of kids your own size to deal with the politics of
school; falling in love with your first grade teacher; learning to tie your
shoes, read phonetically, sit patiently
with hands folded or take a forced nap after ‘cookies and milk time’? Having
your rage suppressed.
What about being told to go to bed when you’re not tired;
getting awakened before you’ve slept enough; told to clean your plate, drink
your juice, get dressed, get dressed,
you’re not wearing that (!) and button
up your overcoat? What was your first nightmare?
You grow into a preteen and your voice changes, your feet
and nose get bigger, you’re judged by how well you play sports, pull off
mischief without getting caught, defend yourself physically and verbally; you
want to belong somewhere but you don’t seem to fit anywhere. You tell your mother
that you didn’t ask to be born. Your face breaks out. Girls get breasts and begin menstrual cycles.
High School happens and your hormones rage; everyone is
against you; you learn to slow dance, French kiss, have a crush, go steady, and
get your heart broken; rinse and repeat. You join a tribe, rebel, study, and
can’t wait to get it all over with; nobody understands the ‘real’ you, you’re
artistic, sensitive, all knowing. Finally you get a driver’s license, a Social
Security card, a part time job, an acoustic guitar and a peer group. You sing out
for social justice.
You graduate into a radical departure; you leave home,
join a band, cult, Army or fraternity/sorority. You’re drinking with the best
of them, no longer a virgin, doing your own laundry and you can play your music
as loud as you want. You have roommates, you watch art movies, discuss
philosophy, name your cat Rimbaud, roll your own (cigarettes). You protest
inequality. At this point there is so much to do in life that you get very
little done, it’s okay, you’re young, free and independent; you wire home for
money. You visit the folks on holidays, surprise them with your new wardrobe,
hairstyle and ability to talk adverse politics peppered with expletives.
At twenty-one you’re exhausted; you’ve taken lovers,
gotten a tattoo, had a brush with the law, been fired for incompetence. At
twenty-five: you’re golden, twenty-seven: you’ve been kicked to the curb,
twenty-eight: you give up, thirty: you settle into a career. It’s time to get
serious about relationships, money, security and the possibility of having a
family of your own, a golden retriever named Marilyn, 401K and a car that is
dependable. You buy insurance, use your degree to get ahead and embrace the responsibilities
you once avoided.
The years tick by in a flash; you take on more than three
people should. You start a business, buy a house, raise kids or live alone in
an apartment with a tank of tropical fish and the work that you’ve taken home
from the office. You’ve been paying your dues and bills; you’ve fallen down and
picked yourself back up, people count on you, you’ve found and lost Jesus on
several occasions; you’re the life of the party, the master of the snappy
comeback, always ready with a smoke or a joke. Shot at and missed, sh*t at and
hit.
Settling into what might pass for maturity you trudge
along, taking happiness in your accomplishments, disregarding your
shortcomings, everyone around you finally knows what can be expected of you.
People around you get sick, get well, some of them die. Younger acquaintances
get married; you go to weddings, funerals, baptisms, sometimes you just send a
gift. You forget birthdays. You get regular checkups, quit smoking and cut back
on the booze. You don’t understand the current musical trends, electronic
gadgets; don’t know who these people are at the Academy Awards, all young
people start to look alike and upstarts begin to call you “Sir (or Ma’am)”. You
still pay attention, you’re interested in the news, you remember when you
marched and protested; you believed that good would triumph over evil.
And then one morning you see that that old person in the
mirror is you and today you tarry a little longer and look deeply at that face.
It’s a good face. A roadmap of decades
of a life; lines of laughter, sadness, worry and joy. A scar here and there where a memory was born;
an obstacle overcome; a time where you were laid low by an enemy, or worse, by a
friend. A scowl, surprise, suspicion,
sorrow or a satisfaction, leaving telltale signs that are unseen from the
inside but apparent when viewed in the looking glass (or someone else’s eyes). So
much done; so much more to do.
