2:30 am

on aging. . .

When I was a kid I used to sneak out at night and wander the neighborhood. As an adult, cruising around under the moonlight in the wee hours still seems subversive. The little boy inside me feels like I am continuing to break the rules. The silence of it all makes me feel suspicious.

It is a lovely feeling.

Speaking of love, I hate what that word has become. All total there are about a million words in the English language. Granted many are jargon, slang, or obsolete, but there is a cornucopia of tasty ways to express oneself if so inclined. There are also no limits. I can make up a word or twist a definition and create a new experience with it.

It is why I am enchantipated by the English language.

I would say I love wordsmithing because that is a truth. It is also at the core of my issue. “Love” as a concept has been watered down. You simply should not use the same word to describe how you feel about the 12:30 am cheese Danish as you do the person you want to build a life with, your deity, and your offspring.

You especially shouldn’t use it to describe zero points in tennis.

Statistically speaking, a person can understand over half of conversational English by knowing only 300 words. That is insane to me. Almost as insane as the 10,000 words the average native speaker uses. Even on the low end of active common words, people are using 10% of the available vocabulary. Essentially using 10% of their brain.

Love alone has about 200 easily accessible synonyms. Poets can dip into a bucket of about 2500. Great poets can stretch to infinity with that one, but I am not expecting the average person to adore the ardor of agape. I am asking the average person to describe the most desirable, intimate, life affirming, joyous, encompassing, course altering, heart splitting, intense feeling a person has with a different reverence than they do a pair of shoes.

I get it. A lot of communication comes across with tone, body language, context, but if you are going to nestle in the belief that love can be expressed with more than just words then you have to be willing to accept that love can be expressed without any words at all. You don’t have to worry if someone loves you if they don’t say it, and in reality you should be highly suspicious of someone who does say it when the context is saying otherwise.

I don’t know. I really am in no position to give relationship advice. My history with family, friends, and significant lovers looks a bit like Omaha Beach circa 1944. I probably could have salvaged a few relationships with that stupid four letter word, but I chose others.

I suppose my angst has its roots in the way people treat the human experience. Not only does everyone seem to want to escape hardship and pain, they want to deny the elation as well. People somehow feel unworthy of accolades. Imposter syndrome. Somehow it is a default position to feel like shit.

I mean, tell me people who are positive all the time aren’t a bit creepy.

It’s like intense emotion is something to be afraid of. Perhaps if folks had a better vocabulary to express themselves those emotions could be managed. Instead they are managed with medications or violence. This isn’t to say words are the only vehicle. Any creative outlet should suffice, but you have to find a healthy way to get that shit out.

At the same time there is relief in being able to talk something out. There is comfort in putting a word to the diagnosis. There is power in knowing there is a word for what you are experiencing so others can relate. Crazy how a collection of scribbles or a noise you make with your mouth can mean the difference between life and death.

Use your words.

I suppose there are limits. Many creative people die tragic deaths despite their ability to express themselves. I am not so obtuse as to think poetry can save the world. I do think giving children a means and the freedom to express their thoughts and emotions without judgment is a positive tactic. Whether that be words or not, encouraging people to express themselves in a positive direction is not a bad thing.

That energy is going to go somewhere. Ideally once the energy escapes it can be replaced with love, but I know most folks don’t have a life that works that way. Most people don’t love themselves. Not really. Probably were never taught. I fully understand how difficult it is to love yourself when the people who are supposed to love you treat you like an inconvenience.

I suppose I was lucky. I didn’t have my first panic attack until I was in my 40’s. That shit is no joke. When it comes to pain and emotional distress, I can usually tough it out. I don’t ignore it, but I can take it in chunks instead of all at once. When I was really panicking it started to interfere, and I couldn’t white knuckle my way through it,

I sought meds.

They didn’t work.

I eventually learned to breathe my way through it and shift my focus. I had to get mad at that voice in my head and prove how stupid it was.

Who are you fucking talking to?

The voice had no reply.

I eventually was able to embrace my situation and the emotions that came with it. In doing so it gave me the perspective to teach my kids to embrace the experience of being human. The good, the bad, the ugly, try to accept it as part of the game. Concentrate on the good, but don’t deny the bad. The bad is there for a reason. For sure if it gets fucking terrible make sure to reach out and ask for help, but don’t expect a lifetime of sunshine and rainbows.

Except now I am having to take my own advice. My current human experience is about aging. It is about watching my body break down. It is about losing my ambulatory skills. It is the potential that my mind will start to slip. It is about accepting that even though I feel a certain age, my facade is one of oldster.

I don’t want to be old. I don’t want the gray hair to dictate whether or not I am qualified for the job. I don’t want my body to fail me at some inopportune time, lying there helpless, completely at the whim of doctors who have more interesting things to do. I don’t want to lose my mind. I value my brain more than anything.

Mostly I don’t want to become a burden. I have spent my life trying to not be an inconvenience to anyone. I get out of peoples way. I let others take what they want and am content to sift through the scraps. I would rather be incognito than the center of attention, and I would rather die a horrible painful death than to ever have my loved ones wish I would just walk into the light already.

The society I live in doesn’t hold the elderly in very high regard. I suppose I am guilty of it too. Being reminded of what aging actually looks like for most of us is a harsh reality. Most people don’t want to think about mortality. Coming face to face with the truth is frightening. Society would rather shuffle us oldsters to the side and forget that the reaper is coming for us all.

This is to say I need to take my own advice. I have to learn to respect getting old. I have to embrace the experience. I am trying, but most of the time it feels like being picked last for the team. It also feels like some kind of sick joke the universe plays. I have a lot of shit figured out but it feels like it is too late to leverage it.

I am not there yet, but I can already feel the changes in how people look at me. I can feel it when I catch a glimpse of some old dude in the mirror that I didn’t know was me. I went from being able to ignore the simple pains and strains my body experienced to hoping they don’t become permanent. I am slapped in the face when the AARP has me on their mailing list.

Don’t know what I am going to do when I start getting the “senior” discount.

I think the scariest part is not knowing when experiences will become the last time. When will I look back and say I remember the last time I shot hoops? The last time I busted some sweet dance moves? The last time I was able to drive? The last time I felt the caress of a woman?

I am on the precipice of a lot of last times. I am also looking at a catalog of firsts as well. I just don’t think my firsts are going to be what dreams are made of. I suppose I am going to have to figure out a way to reach into my vocabulary and find some acceptance. Perhaps even some fondness. A dab of appreciation.

Dare I say. . . love?

C’mere eventual decrepit husk with muddled mind. Give us a sloppy, whisker filled, thin lipped kiss.