It's so damned disappointing and discomfiting to learn that our geezer-ey old parents were so damned . . . right.
They would yack about a million things, many of which just reflected their own times, and prejudices, and predilections. Like many folks, I share lots of them with my makers, but certainly not all. So their yacking was largely disregarded.
But the one thing they kept yapping about how quickly times passes, and how precious it is. Although I wish they'd been more emphatic, I know it could never have pierced my brain. Time didn't pass the same way for a young whippersnapper.
It's a whizzer, friends.
Sometime in August, I learned of a play I wanted very much to see. It was going to open in October. That seemed a lifetime away. And I had so damned much to get done before it would arrive. Kids off to school. Family to care for. Countries to save. Roads to cover . . . I just knew October was a lifetime away. And I blinked, and it was here. And now gone.
We're all experiencing that. I'm not alone. But I may be alone in still not mastering [really, not even grasping] the ability to enjoy and savour every moment. My life is still something that will happen up ahead somewhere, and so many things are just being done and checked off the list.
So as I squeeze in a trip to see a play, and to hang with the Jestaplero, and to set my feet in the most comfortable place I know -- to be edified and laugh my ass off and enjoy smart people and revel in the good life -- I hope that I can figure out a way to enjoy the moment, and not my mind's creation of what is coming around the bend.
I was over forty before I started to lose the impression that this was a dress rehearsal and I would get to do it right ["for real"] at some other point.
Jeezus, I am a fuckhead. . . .