Circadian

Most of my married friends now have children, the rewards of which appear to be exclusively intangible and, like the mysteries of some gnostic sect, incommunicable to outsiders. In fact it seems from the outside as if these people have joined a dubious cult: they claim to be much happier and more fulfilled than ever before, even though they live in conditions of appalling filth and degradation, deprived of the most basic freedoms and dignity, and owe unquestioning obedience to a capricious and demented master.

I have never even idly thought for a single passing second that it might make my life nicer to have a small, rude, incontinent person follow me around screaming and making me buy them stuff for the rest of my life.

– Tim Kreider, “The Referendum“, NY Times, 9/17/09

To this I would only add that I know that not all children are like this, nor do the ones who are stay that way, but we are talking about perception here.

And that, in another similarity to having joined a cult, parents seem unable to avoid proselytizing. To put an uncharitable spin on it, parents are like someone who has made a dubious purchase: they seem intent on speaking only of the intangible benefits, luring others into the same decision in an attempt to dilute their own foolishness in numbers in a very “misery loves company” sort of way. Or, more charitably, to vindicate their decision has having been the “right” one to make.

I do take umbrage with some of the article, however. Rapidly approaching 40, and reading about the recent flowering of a friend of mine who, I suspect is approaching 50 [Edit -- in fact she is past 50, according to her blog. What an odd pair we made when I was 20 and she in her 30's. Was it simply that we were both 'non-traditional' students?], I simply can’t accept the notion that, as quoted in the article, “Acts demolish their alternatives.” In this day and age, there are no limits to what a person can choose to do. We do not need to ossify as time goes by, and in fact, I finally find myself in a place where I can start doing some of those things I always wanted to do, but considered secondary to the more mundane issues of career.

No, I may feel a palpable, green jealousy over having not been the one who articulated the quotation that begins this discussion, but I certainly can’t subscribe to the notion that our choices narrow as time goes on.

Yesterday, we went hunting for ideas for costumes for Halloween. It’s the best holiday of the year, as it’s also our wedding anniversary. M wanted a Red Riding Hood costume, which we found many of, but most were very cheap and very one-size-fits-nobody, honestly. Went back to an earlier idea of going all out ’80’s, to the point that we’re going to see “That ’80’s Band” up in Lafayette on the night of the 30th, and intend to drag everyone we know along with us.

Anyway, we were out and about yesterday, driving a great deal. And I swear to you, I was behind the slowest people on the planet yesterday. People who didn’t know the speed limit. People who were hopelessly lost. People who were unaware that the accelerator is the peddle on the right. And, at the same time, was also interacting with people who thought that 75 MPH was a reasonable speed for a parking lot. Honestly, I know there are lots of great deals out there folks, but death ain’t worth that kind of trouble.

Halloween is the one time of year that everyone feels totally comfortable wandering through stores that sell fishnet stockings and frilly panties. I swear, when the season ends, they’ll take the kids costumes and the animatronic zombies out, wheel back in the dildos and crotchless, edible panties and turn the Halloween stores back into adult bookstores.

M found almost everything she needs for her Madonna-inspired look. Some of it brand new, at stores that sell things to teenagers. Man I love it when the stuff from my generation comes back, but the sheer amount of neon out there right now, well, it’s a little bright for an old guy like me. I’m going back and forth between straight-up metal rock dude and ’80’s vintage vampire (picture Lost Boys). They’re really the same costume with one requiring fake teeth and maybe, if you’re hard core, some contact lenses, while the other demands a guitar and maybe, if you’re hard core, a drug addiction.

Immersed myself in Woodstock today. Watched the two hour long documentary on looking back at Woodstock after 40 years (while tripping on Benadryl), and then listened to classic rock all afternoon.

The really wonderful things that happened there – the Hog Farm feeding everyone, Abbie Hoffman taking charge and making sure that the medical center was running well, the Bad Trip tent where people were taken care of while they were in a bad space and then put in charge of helping others in the same state – make me wish I could have been there. And yet, I’m not entirely sure I would have been, had I even been alive at the time. Had my parents not been 34 and 39 at the time, I could have been conceived there, but not really attended.

I do also wish that we could ever experience something similar today. And yet, it was so spontaneous that if you try (*cough*Woodstock 1999*cough*) today, you’d just get people taking advantage of everyone instead of being cool to one another.

As Wavy Gravy said – “This must be heaven” – and we’ll never see the like on earth again.

You know, I think I just might be an addict.

Not of anything terrible, no. In fact, I’m addicted to something good for me, and it’s an addiction that more men could probably benefit from sharing. I’m addicted to my wife.

Not just in the usual way, either. Sure, I miss her when she’s not around, but this goes way beyond that. In year’s passed, she would go on weekend-long jaunts to other cities to present at educational conferences, or to attend craft conventions. And invariably, I would get sick. Not life-threateningly ill, mind, but a head cold, or a stomach bug, or the flu.

This time, it was a short time away. I saw her at lunchtime yesterday, and then again briefly in the evening for dinner. And then I went home and was utterly unable to sleep. Overwarm bedroom, uncomfortable couch, sure, those are good reasons, but I think part of it was empty bed. I finally gave in at 3:30 in the morning and went back upstairs to try again. And was back up again by 7:30 to go to work.

So yes, I think I might have a literal physical addiction to my wife. There are worse fates!