When I was twenty-eight, going into twenty-nine, or as I called it: "(gasp) ALMOST THIRTY (shriek)!" I went off the rails.
I don't mean I strayed a bit, lost my way, or got off track. I went full-on fucking Amtrak.
I drove around in a Firebird, and when it took a shit, a Camaro.
I bought absolutely ridiculous pants with straps and buckles on them, and wore them in public. They didn't fit well, but damn it, they were cool, and that superseded comfort, because that's what young people do, and I was only (gasp) ALMOST THIRTY (shriek)! I wasn't thirty yet.
I went out to bars wearing my cool, ridiculous pants, and closed them on weeknights, because I wasn't dead yet, damn it.
I got in my Firebird, and went to my old stomping grounds wearing my ridiculous pants, and when I got there, I cast a longing stare around an empty, drastically changed pavilion hoping to see some ghost from my past.
I got not one, but two pet snakes; a tiger reticulated python, and a burmese.
I was still young, and badass, and full off piss and vinegar.
I got some really rough tattoos done by a friend of mine who was trying to rack up apprentice hours.
In my basement.
After a costume party to which he went as Ronald Reagan, and I as (naturally) Edgar Frog.
I, the misanthrope with autistic tendencies that you've all come to know and love, who has no tolerance for public, or people, or even being touched without explicit or implicit consent, was suddenly a social fucking butterfly.
I was partying.
I was hob-nobbing.
I was walking around with a baby python in my pants. Literally. The pockets were as ridiculous as the pants themselves.
I was trying to live all of life all at once.
I got divorced (my ex wife was also (gasp) ALMOST THIRTY (shriek)!), found out I had some pretty serious medical issues, and wound up having to put college on hold...again.
I found myself with a nineteen year old who "totally got me," but eventually took off out of the blue with my bank card.
I wound up on temporary disability, because I was working in a cabinet shop, and had become a danger to myself and others (note: I had a very good boss who understood what I was going through, and even welcomed me back with a promotion and raise).
I was burning out.
I was spiraling out of control.
I could handle it, though. I could take care of myself.
After all, I was only (gasp) ALMOST THIRTY (shriek)!
I had reached critical mass.
If it hadn't been for some very dear friends who were willing to show me what was happening, listen as I fervently denied it, then put their wellies on to trudge through the bullshit and not allow me to fall, I'd have gone off like a water heater with a busted T&P valve.
I didn't though. My friends knew what was going on whether I was going to admit it or not. They told me things I didn't want to hear. They helped me, and supported me whether I asked or not.
No one patted me on the head and reassured me that what I was doing was okay.
It wasn't.
No matter how much I thought I had the right.
My life has had more than it's fair share of apocalyptic moments, and I've gotten through them all.
This post is awful. Not because it has any inherent flaws -- it's excellent. It's awful because it sounded so jarringly familiar that I think I may actually have shit myself.
ReplyDeleteNo, I'm not twenty-eight, but I'm close enough in range for horse shoes and hand grenades to be effective. I also didn't divorce my first husband...I just added a second one. Despite what numerous well-meaning men told me in the bathrooms of dive bars, I thank any and all potential powers that be that I NEVER had a reticulated python. Unfortunately, however, I've become a crazy cat lady far before my time.
And I grew up in ridiculous pants with straps and buckles. Eventually, I stopped wearing them -- mostly because my old pairs were destroyed in a flood. Yet, a few months ago, I bought a new pair -- not with straps or buckles, but by a brand known for making those styles. Yes, I've worn them in public. But not nearly as often as I wear the black jeans and band t-shirts that have become my staples over the years.
Incidentally, I'd pay good money to see people who were lucky enough to grow up in black jeans and band t-shirts wearing ridiculous pants. I'd pay even more money to see those same people eat a faceful of sand, but I won't be petty.
As for the pavilion, I know that feeling too. I still live close to it and it looks strange empty. It looks even stranger full of conventional tourists. A quote comes to mind: "You think when I dress like this I'm even more obvious" -- From the Birdcage, Albert Goldman while wearing normal clothes instead of drag.
But I've walked in there a few times and found out that what I thought were ghosts were alive and well. I learned that if you're not careful, you can wake up to find them in your bed. That if you are careful, you'll be glad you did. Memories you were sure would stay locked in the past can come roaring back to life. Just last night, for example, some crazy guy with a guitar was sitting on the floor of my office singing, "Give Us Change".
I guess what I'm trying to say is: Don't accidentally throw the black boots out with the buckles (or brats with the bathwater, whatever floats your boat). A crisis needs immediate resolution, and I don't doubt you were having one. But humans are shaped in part by their pasts (including crises).
In the past three years when I've heard five people instead of fifty discussing philosophy and two guys with guitars instead of twenty; I've also heard echoes of laughter, seen phantom traces of twirling limbs and glow sticks among an army in black -- who spent nights giving the finger to a world that taught them to grow so old, so fast.
Despite alarming similarities, I don't think I'm in a crisis, though I've had many, because I'm not acting on my borderline Aqualung Impulses. I suspect everyone at the pavilion walked through fire. And sometimes, cycles spin so fast that the future resembles the past.
At my old home -- at my new home, there is a miniature army in black who came through the fire alive. Older, wiser, kinder, with roofs over our heads, food in our bellies, and no drugs in our bodies...giving out free advice to a world full of beauty and hope.
Thanks for the kind words Leanan. "Some crazy guy with a guitar" is a badge of honor I wear proudly.
ReplyDeleteJust to add my 2 copper pieces to the post, I had a similar experience. But for me, the land of suburbia and white picket fences (gag, cringe) was the midlife crisis. The Pavilion was coming home.