Under the Webster's Dictionary definition of "wrong" is the following illustration:
THAT is gray hair. THAT is MY gray hair, two weeks ago, before my 8 week dye job. The appropriate sacrifices will be made to the deities of cosmetology, tempered with the injustice of having gray hair AND the zits of a 16 year old bird-chested man-boy. Seriously... that's whacked.
One day, I woke up old. In a couple of days, I will wake up 34. I've now been 17, twice... 17 was a good age, before the loss of optimism and hope and my hometown and my dad, when I marked the passage of time by summer vacations and not mortgage payments. But in a cruel twist, being 17 twice has not been twice the fun. And all told, I'm half way to 68. Will I even make it to 68?
I have an anthem, or rather, the anthem chose me... Talking Heads' "Once in a Lifetime."
"And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful
Wife
And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?"
I remember Nancy Bickel jumping around on her dorm bed in Mary Branch, belting out the lyrics and waving her arms like she was swimming, and I remember thinking that I would never get married or own a house... and then I probably downed another Milwaukie's Beast with a bourbon chaser and stumbled blissfully out into the bustling nightlife that was Randoph-Macon in the mid-90s.
And now, the Talking Heads talk in my head - more than they probably should. Another undocumented benefit of obsessive compulsive disorder. They sing every morning, as 7:30 am turns to 8 and I accomplish mathematical feats that would have made my high school trigonometry teacher convulse in joy, and I figure out just how long I'll really need to get ready and just how much longer I can sleep in and still get to work only one hour after everyone else.
Then I wake up, and I look around, and I swear to all that is holy that just yesterday... JUST YESTERDAY... I was hanging out at the pool eating brownie batter and mayonnaise sandwiches (my culinary skills revealed themselves at an early age), or sunning on the rooftop terrace of our DC apartment, listening to Depeche Mode and avoiding eye contact with the guy in the speedo with a prosthetic leg. I stare up at the crown molding in the bedroom and remember that there was a day that a simple pair of Chuck Taylor's and my green JCrew sweater constituted the only aesthetic I craved. And I look at Lucy and begin ticking off the morning's events... suitable fancy neighborhood dog walking attire, Lucy to pee, pill for Oliver, morning treats for Lucy, brush teeth, shower, dress (iron if absolutely, positively necessary), curse my ever expanding arse, grab a granola bar and a diet coke, kiss the husband or set the alarm, drive to work through 9 lights and 5 construction projects, pull into the garage, chat with Chucky the attendant, elevate to the 20th floor, avoid bosses and start reading the day's news.
How did I get here? Adulthood. Bastion of the uninspired.
Fiona Apple is now 30. Wasn't she just 18, and providing lyrical fodder for my disdain? Jay-Z's "Can I Get A..." is now included in a VH-1 musical retrospective about the 90s. Weren't the 90s just yesterday? I'm pretty sure they were, and Joanie, Beth and I were requesting that song from the transgendered DJ at the Monte Carlo. And now... now... MOLLY RINGWALD IS PLAYING A TEENAGER'S MOTHER ON AN ABC FAMILY SHOW. And I have gray hair, wrinkles... and I swear to god, I'm getting a liver spot on my right hand.
And as I trace the blue veins making their way up my chicken-white leg, I figure it's as good a time as any for a confession: Mom, that time in my junior year of college when I called you at 9 am with leg pain from being hit with a hammer at the Habitat for Humanity jobsite? That time when you had to pay out of pocket for urgent care expenses? That injury really arose out of a drunken bathroom headstand gone bad. Sorry. The pain was real, though, as is the nerve damage that I continue to enjoy today... 14 long years later... and I haven't had vodka since.
THAT is gray hair. THAT is MY gray hair, two weeks ago, before my 8 week dye job. The appropriate sacrifices will be made to the deities of cosmetology, tempered with the injustice of having gray hair AND the zits of a 16 year old bird-chested man-boy. Seriously... that's whacked.
One day, I woke up old. In a couple of days, I will wake up 34. I've now been 17, twice... 17 was a good age, before the loss of optimism and hope and my hometown and my dad, when I marked the passage of time by summer vacations and not mortgage payments. But in a cruel twist, being 17 twice has not been twice the fun. And all told, I'm half way to 68. Will I even make it to 68?
I have an anthem, or rather, the anthem chose me... Talking Heads' "Once in a Lifetime."
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful
Wife
And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?"
I remember Nancy Bickel jumping around on her dorm bed in Mary Branch, belting out the lyrics and waving her arms like she was swimming, and I remember thinking that I would never get married or own a house... and then I probably downed another Milwaukie's Beast with a bourbon chaser and stumbled blissfully out into the bustling nightlife that was Randoph-Macon in the mid-90s.
And now, the Talking Heads talk in my head - more than they probably should. Another undocumented benefit of obsessive compulsive disorder. They sing every morning, as 7:30 am turns to 8 and I accomplish mathematical feats that would have made my high school trigonometry teacher convulse in joy, and I figure out just how long I'll really need to get ready and just how much longer I can sleep in and still get to work only one hour after everyone else.
Then I wake up, and I look around, and I swear to all that is holy that just yesterday... JUST YESTERDAY... I was hanging out at the pool eating brownie batter and mayonnaise sandwiches (my culinary skills revealed themselves at an early age), or sunning on the rooftop terrace of our DC apartment, listening to Depeche Mode and avoiding eye contact with the guy in the speedo with a prosthetic leg. I stare up at the crown molding in the bedroom and remember that there was a day that a simple pair of Chuck Taylor's and my green JCrew sweater constituted the only aesthetic I craved. And I look at Lucy and begin ticking off the morning's events... suitable fancy neighborhood dog walking attire, Lucy to pee, pill for Oliver, morning treats for Lucy, brush teeth, shower, dress (iron if absolutely, positively necessary), curse my ever expanding arse, grab a granola bar and a diet coke, kiss the husband or set the alarm, drive to work through 9 lights and 5 construction projects, pull into the garage, chat with Chucky the attendant, elevate to the 20th floor, avoid bosses and start reading the day's news.
How did I get here? Adulthood. Bastion of the uninspired.
Fiona Apple is now 30. Wasn't she just 18, and providing lyrical fodder for my disdain? Jay-Z's "Can I Get A..." is now included in a VH-1 musical retrospective about the 90s. Weren't the 90s just yesterday? I'm pretty sure they were, and Joanie, Beth and I were requesting that song from the transgendered DJ at the Monte Carlo. And now... now... MOLLY RINGWALD IS PLAYING A TEENAGER'S MOTHER ON AN ABC FAMILY SHOW. And I have gray hair, wrinkles... and I swear to god, I'm getting a liver spot on my right hand.
And as I trace the blue veins making their way up my chicken-white leg, I figure it's as good a time as any for a confession: Mom, that time in my junior year of college when I called you at 9 am with leg pain from being hit with a hammer at the Habitat for Humanity jobsite? That time when you had to pay out of pocket for urgent care expenses? That injury really arose out of a drunken bathroom headstand gone bad. Sorry. The pain was real, though, as is the nerve damage that I continue to enjoy today... 14 long years later... and I haven't had vodka since.