I Still Am
"You used to be fun. You used to be warped and twisted and hilarious. And I mean that in the best way, I mean that as a compliment."
--Lloyd Dobler
I've always thought of myself as a generally easygoing guy--from the time I was a wee lad it never took much to make me Happy. Throughout my childhood (and even into my early teenage years) I amused myself for hours on end walking around my parents backyard with a stick, talking to myself and acting out sprawling, epic adventures with a supporting cast of thousands of imaginary friends, enemies and extras. Even in the darkest malaise of my self-destructive early twenties it never took more than a good mix tape, a late night drive around the neighborhood and maybe a Super Big Gulp and a pack of cigarettes to bring me back to sea level in the face of crazy romantic drama or family illness.
But as I've drifted into my thirties something seems to have gone wrong. I'm just noticing it now but I think it's been brewing for awhile--I'm much slower to smile, much faster to grimace, and my default setting seems to be a full shoulder-hunched sigh of discontent. What the fuck? When did I turn into the Christmas Eve version of George Bailey?
I suppose if Clarence guided me through the tour it would be easy enough to spot. Adulthood crept in behind my back and set up camp at some point. I didn't martial the forces of abstraction and whimsy and fight to preserve my happy-go-lucky youthful spirit--I just kind of settled in and let it happen. And now I've become That Guy. Harrumph. I set up my day to be a series of dissapointments; I am chronically, comically over-sensitive and ultra-critical of those closest to me; I obsess over whether or not I'm doing the right thing or making the right decisions for my family to the point where I am at best useless and worst harmful to them.
Which is not say I'm not Happy--I am. I have the most incredible wife and child anyone could ask for, I have wonderful friends, I don't hate my job, I believe in the basic goodness of man, blah blah blah. I am unequivocally Happy--I'm just usually not very happy. The signifier is not reaching the signified.
So here's what I resolve to do: Loosen the fuck up. Decide to be in a good mood, and then be in a good mood. Not blame the people around me for my own constitutional displeasure. I don't smoke anymore (not officially anyway) and I've given up Super Big Gulps (officially anyway) and mix tapes are a relic of pre-mp3 antiquated culture, but I have to find the equivalent of the late-night drive to give myself an outlet and just pure, sensory pleasure. Carve out time to read the New York Times everyday, take the dog on an early morning walk, sneak out at lunch to see a movie, write something everyday in this blog. Settle down and just fucking take life easy.
Gee, it's easy.
--Lloyd Dobler
I've always thought of myself as a generally easygoing guy--from the time I was a wee lad it never took much to make me Happy. Throughout my childhood (and even into my early teenage years) I amused myself for hours on end walking around my parents backyard with a stick, talking to myself and acting out sprawling, epic adventures with a supporting cast of thousands of imaginary friends, enemies and extras. Even in the darkest malaise of my self-destructive early twenties it never took more than a good mix tape, a late night drive around the neighborhood and maybe a Super Big Gulp and a pack of cigarettes to bring me back to sea level in the face of crazy romantic drama or family illness.
But as I've drifted into my thirties something seems to have gone wrong. I'm just noticing it now but I think it's been brewing for awhile--I'm much slower to smile, much faster to grimace, and my default setting seems to be a full shoulder-hunched sigh of discontent. What the fuck? When did I turn into the Christmas Eve version of George Bailey?
I suppose if Clarence guided me through the tour it would be easy enough to spot. Adulthood crept in behind my back and set up camp at some point. I didn't martial the forces of abstraction and whimsy and fight to preserve my happy-go-lucky youthful spirit--I just kind of settled in and let it happen. And now I've become That Guy. Harrumph. I set up my day to be a series of dissapointments; I am chronically, comically over-sensitive and ultra-critical of those closest to me; I obsess over whether or not I'm doing the right thing or making the right decisions for my family to the point where I am at best useless and worst harmful to them.
Which is not say I'm not Happy--I am. I have the most incredible wife and child anyone could ask for, I have wonderful friends, I don't hate my job, I believe in the basic goodness of man, blah blah blah. I am unequivocally Happy--I'm just usually not very happy. The signifier is not reaching the signified.
So here's what I resolve to do: Loosen the fuck up. Decide to be in a good mood, and then be in a good mood. Not blame the people around me for my own constitutional displeasure. I don't smoke anymore (not officially anyway) and I've given up Super Big Gulps (officially anyway) and mix tapes are a relic of pre-mp3 antiquated culture, but I have to find the equivalent of the late-night drive to give myself an outlet and just pure, sensory pleasure. Carve out time to read the New York Times everyday, take the dog on an early morning walk, sneak out at lunch to see a movie, write something everyday in this blog. Settle down and just fucking take life easy.
Gee, it's easy.
posted by tom at 2:33 PM
4 Comments:
Tom-
Fabulous entry. You expressed what I feel every week far more eloquently then I ever could have.
I get caught up living my life too conservatively until every so often I have a mini-panic attack of self realization that I'm some uptight asshole who doesn't know how to live anymore. This is usually a moment when I'm bitching to the spouse about his forgetting to close the shower curtain or wiping down the kitchen counter. This in turn usually prompts a few random acts of spontanaeity until I settle back into my default mundane exisit of being Ms. Organized and Anal.
So yeah, we all need to loosen up. Next time I see you we can all play a game of drunk Twister.
One more random thought- today I went walking on the treadmill at at work. I was huffing and puffing, regretting every minute of it, trying not to sweat so I wouln't have to shower, trying to avoid being seen by coworkers...
After I was done I went to cool down and stretch in our dance studio. It was empty and the lights were off. As I stood in front of the large mirror I realized that I was all alone, in in the middle of the day, in large quiet room. Blissful. I immediately had a huge grin on my face.
My point? I hope to pay attention to and better capture the joy out of the little moments in time that perhaps I've been ignorant of.
Drunken Twister!!
My epiphany was sparked in part after the wife and I drove by a Carl's Jr. and I remarked that I was once thrown out of that establishment in my youth, along with your nursie husband and our carpenter friend, for instigating an ice-throwing melee. She commented on how hard it is to think of any of us doing anything like that now, and when I realized she was right it made me kind of sad. So be warned--the ice will be flying at that next pool party as I reclaim my inner idiot.
Let's not forget that Nurse Focker was also fired for eating an old breakfast muffin. He is still pissed about that to this day. I say we screw the drunken Twister and ice throwing and instead picket Carl's Jr. Wait. On second thought, I do love their Western Bacon cheeseburger with seasoned curly fries. Aw shit, let's just go eat there instead.
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