Older

I'm older than I've ever been, and now, I'm even older. I have brown, temporary dye soaking into my stratified, cornified, squamous epithelium, as a transition stage to the profusion of grey. Women in my family either go grey early, or hardly at all, ever. I wound up in the early camp. Figures, I'm early for everything else.

Being early, invariably, has it's own set of realities. Interfaces with the procrastinators and invariably late can be an anguish of fury and self doubt, and a lesson in patience and resignation. Helping setting up chairs and getting the pickles out of tiny mouthed jars and into glass dishes, awkward chatting or peaceful usefulness in the last half hour of pre-party preparation. Getting stuck moving a heavy OR table into the room, or time to let the sleep drain out as thought gathers at 0645. Snagging a seat at a meeting, or standing around before the bagels arrive, and the room is changed. Waiting out in the cold and rain for the Publick House doors to open at 1210 for Sunday Brunch.

It's pessimism, assuming that I will get caught in traffic, the train will break down, I will forget the paperwork and have to go back, the line will be long. I don't want to be the one everyone stares at stumbling through the row in the dark for the play. Not that I'm fond of sitting through all the ads and previews at a movie - part of why I have grown so reluctant to see a film in a theater. The always late make the assumption that all will be well, a hopeful state of mind that seems easier, less stuck to heavy worries. But, having been on the side of waiting for those who know I will wait for them, I never want to make anyone else feel so small or disdained.

It's a trade-off, like any set of perspectives. Glass half empty, glass half full, glass twice as big as it needs to be, glass with plenty of room for a top-off. I experience life from this angle, occasionally getting up on a chair to see what it looks like from there, moderating, understanding. I've gotten less stressed about consciously being early, more content with approximations, knowing when late is expected.

The dye is temporary, a delay, demurring to my vanity, obvious, but soothing to my sense of time. A visual crutch, to slow me down, and not rush off to wait. The world is not out to get me, personally. Nor are my late friends. Nor am I out to embarrass them. I try to match every other step of my minor key allegro to their languid happy dance, infuse my intensity into a slow Chiftitelli.

Emulate Moby, in repose.


I dare you now to respond to this circuitous announcement of my 45th birthday with anything but Happy Birthday. In fact, I challenge you to post a comment most snarky and irreverent. C'mon, I know you can...