Them Bones

I'm getting old. At least that's what my body tells me. With alarming consistency. Anytime I lie down or sit on the floor, a veritable checklist of body parts is ticked off one by one as I stand; my right hip cracks, then my left, followed by both knees with an occasional back crack or two. When did this start happening? Why is this happening? This ISN'T supposed to happen yet. Thankfully, my metabolism doesn't seem to be crashing and burning yet, but should I look forward to that happening in the near future?

It's funny how these things sneak up on you. In fact, just the other day I was trying to remember the process of gaining a womanly figure, more specifically hips. There are phases of maturation that are indelibly seared in my mind forever, but hips was one of those things that snuck up on me (or should I say two of those things?). Though they are sometimes very frustrating in the fashion/clothing realm, for the most part I appreciate them for the asset they are—I think I push open more doors annually with my hips than my hands. I am not sure, however, that I will ever learn to appreciate my bones cracking. Unless I somehow need the reminder that my legs are still attached to my body.

I guess this may seem a bit random writing about cracking bones and . . . hips, but lately I have just come into a strong awareness that this is life. Never feeling mentally as old as your body physically is (even if it seems to be prematurely aging). I have said it before and I'm sure I'll say it for many years to come, but I still mentally feel like a 13 year old. Ok. Maybe that isn't entirely correct. In the social realm I still feel like a 13-year-old (a.k.a. I can't even look at boys I find cute) (sub a.k.a that very statement sounds like a 13-year-old: boys? cute? oy ve.) I have noticed new thought patterns and subject matter evolve in the last few years that wasn't there before in my everyday musings. I am also much more existential in my thought life than I used to be, though I have always been very aware of things beyond my age in many ways, and have taken the cares of the world upon my shoulders. But I still don't feel like I am an adult. I'm curious what it will take to make that happen. Finally starting my career? Marriage? Sex? Birthing another human being? Which if THAT is what it takes, heaven KNOWS I am never going to be an adult. Yeesh. But what if it is of a more existential nature than that? Will it be looking in the mirror and being satisfied with what I see? Will it be finally being able to love myself? Well, to be honest, I don't know if that will ever happen either. I'm too aware of me.

Lately, in my academic career, I have had various conversations that revolved around my feelings of inadequacy, both in my own classes, and those I teach, and repeatedly, the same clichéd mantra has come up: fake it till you make it. Ok. I can deal with that. I don't love being fake, which is beside the point, but I am beginning to think that we all just perpetually fake it and that we don't actually ever "make it". It's like a vicious circle, a reciprocal process that takes us back to the question of what "making it" means, what it takes to feel like an adult, a professional, a so-called expert, you name it.  Maybe it is impossible to make it. Maybe that's something that can only occur when we step through those glorious pearly gates and regain our perfect selves. Maybe that's the making it that I should focus on, because that's maybe the best chance I have. Who knows. But I may be nearer to that than I suspect . . . if my creaky bones are any indication.

I Am A Chipmunk Whisperer

It's true. Today when I was sitting outside in the driveway, talking on the phone, I heard some rustling in the grass to my right. Pretty soon, a tiny little tail appeared, sticking straight up out of the grass and it was coming straight at me. It was a baby chipmunk, and it came and sat under my legs. UNDER MY LEGS. Granted, it was only for a few seconds, but it still played near me while two other chipmunks frolicked and munched nearby. And as they all eventually ran off to other adventures, a hummingbird flitted by to mark their departure. So this is what being in a Disney movie feels like.

Sometimes I feel like a lonely warrior. The ranks have pulled back and I somehow missed the memo and am still trying to fight. I'm still fighting even though the war is over, swinging at imaginary foe that for some reason, seem very real to me.

But then I come to the slow realization that the enemy is me and that I am fighting against myself, my memories, my guilt, my shame, my endless and misplaced hope that will not die. But instead of killing my hope, I choose to turn against my gut—my guiding force—and in a swift ode to seppuku, I silence it. Yet what is hope without the life-blood that drives it . . . it is an empty shell, that is no better off than it was before.

Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning;
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

Stevie Smith

Miscommunication is a theme that runs rampant in 20th century literature, and it is something that we in the 21st century have made an art form. In this poem, the dead man is sending signals, wildly gesturing that he needs help, but because he has "always loved larking," people misread his plea for life-saving intervention as nothing more than a jolly greeting from a man frolicking in the waves.

What is interesting though, is the last stanza: it broaches questions of intention. The man has admittedly existed "too far out all my life" even when "it was too cold always." He placed himself on the edge, a barrier of waves and distance between him and those who could help if the need arose. Is he a victim of miscommunication and circumstance, or is he the perpetrator of his own doom?