Sometimes I just despair about this blog. I either find myself stumped for things to write about because my brain is fried from writing workish things all day or I'm tired and worried about the inanities in my head making their way into my fingers. Sometimes there are just inanities, you know? But we all have them, I think, and perhaps if we were more honest about them the world would be a better place. So I don't care if they come out anymore.
My new thinking here is just to write as often as possible about something that makes me pause, for one reason or another. Gives me a little jolt, or a moment of reflection, or a bit of happiness, or a different way of thinking.
This week I've been feeling very adult in the worst sense of the term. Kind of locked, sluggish, middle-aged, squishy, and nervewrackingly uncurious. There are many possible reasons for this. One, I think, is the horrible sinking feeling I still get when I think of the Boston Marathon last week; I can't isolate it and rationalize it—I let it spiral into "the world is an awful, hopeless place if this can happen." It's so paralyzing, this thinking. Sometimes having kids makes you panic in ways you've never panicked before, and empathize with people like never before, and be afraid of people like never before.
Having kids also makes you do work you might not always want to do, because there is no escaping how much responsibility your love of those small beings entails ... so maybe you get less adventurous and willing to take risks, because you think a bit too much about house and home and all those sorts of things. I certainly have become less bohemian since O and G came into our lives, and part of me thinks this is inevitable and even a good thing, and part of me thinks it is entirely scary and not who I want to be for O and G—or for me. So this post, as it comes out, is about nipping my adult in the bud.
To celebrate this thought and hopefully spur it on, I am attaching a video Craig introduced me to last week—he is doing a better job than me at keeping up with music. I like the song, but it's the performance—live—that thrills me. The excitement in the air, the rangy, frenetic limbs of Ben Haggerty, the knowledge among all of them that they are doing something fantastic ... the joy.
This guy, Ben, does not let anything stop him. He thinks what he wants to think and does what he wants to do. I picture him in crazy sweatpants and a headband running through the park not because he needs the exercise but because he can't stop himself. He can't, or he's going to hit the ceiling. He's probably yelling things to himself and talking to strangers as he runs, stopping when he feels like it, probably grabbing a lollypop along the way. I want him to cook for me: I bet he makes an insane spaghetti bolognese, not that I eat meat.
Ben, I'm taking you to the gym with me today. I hope you make my legs go a little faster but I know for sure I'll be attacking my recent slothfulness with less grim resignation than I might have done without you.