Long term memories are a different animal entirely. They are not necessarily a problem -- sometimes they're actually quite pleasant. But they tend to take me by surprise, unexpected visitors from distant lifetimes that seem close enough to touch. Retrieval is less a relief than a jarring reminder of the passage of time. I keep wishing for do-overs, to enjoy what I was too naive to enjoy, to re-enjoy what I was lucky enough to appreciate the first time around, to fix whatever I broke.
I know there must be plenty of folks over the age of thirty living downtown, but in the twenty-four hours I spent there this weekend I didn't notice any. Not in the trendy Italian restaurant in the West Loop where the manager who stopped by our table to check on us and self-promote, not necessarily in that order, seemed barely out of high school. I wondered if the smart looking couple snuggling in the booth across from me were old enough to drink that bottle of wine they ordered. I wondered if the two young girls in the booth next to me were just wearing their moms' wedding rings for fun. I tried to take the effusive manager seriously while I fixated on the peach fuzz on his chin.
At breakfast the next morning, a stone's throw from where I first lived when I moved to Chicago almost thirty years ago, the aromas and the packed in tables were strangely familiar, as familiar as the young faces surrounding me, deep in concentration as young hands with elastic skin spread gobs of Nutella on thick, fluffy pancakes. None of them seemed unhappy, but still, I wanted to shake them, explain to them how ecstatic they should be. Remind them how foolish they are to think that this would last.
As I walked the streets of the city yesterday, reminders of several lifetimes gone by drifted past me. Young twenty-somethings, being grown-ups for the first time. Older twenty-somethings, with babies in tow, really being grown-ups for the first time. Even the forty-somethings, wide-eyed as they strolled on college tours with their first-borns. I wanted to shake them too, tell them that before long, they would be like me.
My friend and I talked about it. We felt certain there must be at least a handful of people alive who are older than we are; we just couldn't find them. We looked in the mirror and gave ourselves makeshift facelifts with the heels of our hands. The difference was noticeable, in a good way, as long as you don't care about things like smiles or other genuine facial expressions.
With the heels of my hands stretching my skin behind my ears, I had the odd sensation of seeing the younger me and the "now" me at the same time. The younger me seemed vaguely familiar, like the aromas in the little breakfast joint. But no matter how intently I stared, I could not erase the lines and the wrinkles, the twists and turns of the roadmap that has gotten me from there to here.
I may feel invisible, sometimes, like all the folks over thirty (and forty, and fifty) who must exist but I just can't see them when I'm out and about, surrounded by twenty-somethings. And the memories of distant lifetimes that seem close enough to touch will continue their assault -- for better or for worse. I might wish to erase the wrinkles and the years, but the "now" me is the one I see, the one I'm stuck with, at least until the next lifetime takes over.
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