Ah. Somebody who just doesn't have an "off" switch." Somebody everybody loves to be with, in small doses. A good thing, but too much of it. That's okay; after more than three years in the wonderful world of dating I have developed a fairly foolproof exit strategy: narcolepsy. Okay, well I'm not sure I am clinically narcoleptic, but I can assure you there is no better way to shut somebody up than falling asleep in the middle of a conversation. Not just falling asleep but drooling, talking gibberish, and relaxing your muscles so completely that your head literally falls into your lap. And I wonder why men my age seek out women in their thirties, chicks who don't start slurring words and babbling incomprehensibly about baking brownies while they are supposed to be in the throes of passion.
I'm all about compromise. I'll take too much nice, charming, and funny over sporadic and unexpected helpings of vicious, unpleasant, and humorless. And I'll definitely pass on the egg timer -- with my luck, it would cut off the steady pay check as well, and that's not something I'm willing to risk. Especially when I am likely to fall asleep during a job interview.
We are all in a race with some cosmic egg timer. In a world where Tony Soprano can survive a well placed bullet but the actor who brought him to life can drop dead at fifty-one while on holiday, you cannot help but realize how powerless you are against those grains of sand. If only we all had unlimited time, as much time to search for life's meaning as folks in law enforcement have enjoyed to search for Jimmy Hoffa. Seriously, after over thirty-five years, folks are still searching for a body that we all know was long ago dispersed in tiny, undiscoverable bits while the rest of us mortals have to make do within the constraints of a giant timed test. Who makes the rules here?
I'm feeling the pinch these days. It's hard not to when you bear witness to too many people your own age -- or younger -- disappearing before they are done with whatever it is they are supposed to do. I feel like one of the confused dogs in a video my friend sent out the other day, a clever little piece in which dogs muse out loud about the great mysteries of life. Like why humans hide their genitals in public, and how they don't die from constipation after a lifetime of steadfast refusal to poop. The dogs are smarter than we are, though. They don't waste time trying to fix things; they seem acutely aware that there's an egg timer, and that worrying is just pointless. The dogs, they acknowledge that some things are just beyond their control. "I'll just have to go pee on the bed," a few of the more eloquent ones announce, resigned. And then they move on.
My daughter and I took a little bike tour of local suburbia yesterday, checking out cute little houses on the market. The owners of one invited us in to look around. The house had everything we needed -- bedrooms, bathrooms, closets, a tantalizing view of Starbucks and Chipotle -- but it was shockingly small. And it smelled like cat. We wondered what we might do, about our dining room table, our ping pong table, my king size bed, our piles of clothing. About the lingering smell of unseen cats, one of the few things in life that can outlast the search for Jimmy Hoffa.
People my age and much younger die, often without warning, certainly without good explanation. I fall asleep during good movies, go suddenly limp while perfectly interesting people are talking to me. Oy. And, speaking of "oy," there are even greater mysteries; Jews and gentiles everywhere know that "oy" is the best way to react to most of life's twists and turns and yet the iPhone auto correct function repeatedly turns "oy" into "it." I'm baffled, constantly, but I have no control over the egg timer so I'm not going to waste time thinking about it.
If I could I'd go pee on the bed. Maybe I'll just have some chocolate.
I'm all about compromise. I'll take too much nice, charming, and funny over sporadic and unexpected helpings of vicious, unpleasant, and humorless. And I'll definitely pass on the egg timer -- with my luck, it would cut off the steady pay check as well, and that's not something I'm willing to risk. Especially when I am likely to fall asleep during a job interview.
We are all in a race with some cosmic egg timer. In a world where Tony Soprano can survive a well placed bullet but the actor who brought him to life can drop dead at fifty-one while on holiday, you cannot help but realize how powerless you are against those grains of sand. If only we all had unlimited time, as much time to search for life's meaning as folks in law enforcement have enjoyed to search for Jimmy Hoffa. Seriously, after over thirty-five years, folks are still searching for a body that we all know was long ago dispersed in tiny, undiscoverable bits while the rest of us mortals have to make do within the constraints of a giant timed test. Who makes the rules here?
I'm feeling the pinch these days. It's hard not to when you bear witness to too many people your own age -- or younger -- disappearing before they are done with whatever it is they are supposed to do. I feel like one of the confused dogs in a video my friend sent out the other day, a clever little piece in which dogs muse out loud about the great mysteries of life. Like why humans hide their genitals in public, and how they don't die from constipation after a lifetime of steadfast refusal to poop. The dogs are smarter than we are, though. They don't waste time trying to fix things; they seem acutely aware that there's an egg timer, and that worrying is just pointless. The dogs, they acknowledge that some things are just beyond their control. "I'll just have to go pee on the bed," a few of the more eloquent ones announce, resigned. And then they move on.
My daughter and I took a little bike tour of local suburbia yesterday, checking out cute little houses on the market. The owners of one invited us in to look around. The house had everything we needed -- bedrooms, bathrooms, closets, a tantalizing view of Starbucks and Chipotle -- but it was shockingly small. And it smelled like cat. We wondered what we might do, about our dining room table, our ping pong table, my king size bed, our piles of clothing. About the lingering smell of unseen cats, one of the few things in life that can outlast the search for Jimmy Hoffa.
People my age and much younger die, often without warning, certainly without good explanation. I fall asleep during good movies, go suddenly limp while perfectly interesting people are talking to me. Oy. And, speaking of "oy," there are even greater mysteries; Jews and gentiles everywhere know that "oy" is the best way to react to most of life's twists and turns and yet the iPhone auto correct function repeatedly turns "oy" into "it." I'm baffled, constantly, but I have no control over the egg timer so I'm not going to waste time thinking about it.
If I could I'd go pee on the bed. Maybe I'll just have some chocolate.
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