While the Fourth Estate endlessly discusses the apocalyptic ramifications of Britney's trip(s) to rehab, the music nerds of the world have visions of
sugarplums Andy Summers, Stewart Copeland, and Sting dancing in their heads. During one of many arguments debates shouting matches discussions over whether the Police reunion is truly an historic event or a rapacious, geriatric attempt to clothe the increasingly AOR-friendly lead singer in the faded legitimacy of his youth (see: The Who) it came up that the Police last recorded music together 20 years ago.
20 years ago. When I was a kid Buddy Holly was making music "20 years ago."
Where does the time go? For all the talk of grups and rejuveniles and alternadads
desparately smugly proudly sporting their skateboard bruises and Arcade Fire CDs, time still marches on, and the weight of age and responsibility still hangs on us, whether we want to accept it or not.
I proudly brandish my grup credentials, mind you. But I felt a twinge in my hip while retrieving Cheeky from her car seat the other day, and again while trying to negotiate a fossilized snow-bank without killing us both. That stuff didn't use to happen. Everyone my age in the NFL is either retiring or should be (sorry, Bledsoe...it's time). And my 9 year old nephew got a Rubik's Cube and Optimus Prime for his birthday, providing irrefutable evidence that the circle of life has had time to do a complete lap around the track and christen those toys "cool" again.
Probably most shocking to me was this. What you don't see in this picture is the bar I used to hang out in a lot when I first moved to New York, back
when I was alive and still had the glitter of hope in my eye before I met Oodgie and began stressing out about annual performance reviews. I've seen places come and go before, but the shock of turning that corner in Tribeca to see the vacant facade hit me with more force and clarity than I expected.
We may ignore it, or fight it, or slap a fresh coat of paint on it but time continues it's ponderous, inexorable steps forward whether we like it or not.
I'm not afraid of it. I welcome it and accept it. It's part of life, and the sooner I get used to it the better I'll adjust to it. But I do sometimes find the weight of responsibility a struggle. I try not to show it or let it get me down, but every once in a while the realization that I can't just hop on a plane and go to Sasquatch or SXSW for a weekend, or that being constantly more creative and diligent at work may be the only way to move up and keep paying the bills, drags me down. I can't help wishing for the excitement I used to feel when I'd go tubing for the weekend with friends, or sneaking into the rooftop pool at a local resort. Those moments of unfettered, selfish joy are fewer and farther between when you've got responsibilities like we all do. But it's our obligation to ourselves and those we love to acknowledge that change is inevitable and good, and in the end there's nothing wrong with growing up.
I'm am optimist at heart, and even in those gloomy moments I know it's just a matter of time before they devise a pill that will make me as young and vigorous as a tiger at a water buffalo convention. Then I'll be breakdancing at Cheeky's wedding, even if I have to shed my cryogenic suit to do it. And in the mean time, although the moments of joy I experience now may not be as dramatic or spectacular as they used to be, I wouldn't trade them for anything.