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Friday, December 22, 2006
Cater to the wild self
Don't give cash this Christmas, give presents.
On a tangent, Christmas is a terrible day for me: for the last few years, it has been the last day of my youth. My birthday falls on December 26, which means that this Christmas will be my last day as a 32-year-old. The next day I'll feel so much older, even though just a day would have passed. (Or a minute, after 11.59 pm.) Every year this happens, and when the inevitable cannot be ignored, I adjust my definition of youth, adding one more year to it.
And I tell myself things like:
"My life isn't a waste yet. XXX wrote his first novel at [insert current age plus eight]."
"If I get a haircut and go the gym regularly, I might look younger."
"Writers need experience, they need to have lived. I'm living."
"Women like older men."
The last is a particular weak attempt, one that I never dare think in front of the mirror, lest I start laughing at myself. Immense old age creeps up.
(MR link via email from Shruti.)
On a tangent, Christmas is a terrible day for me: for the last few years, it has been the last day of my youth. My birthday falls on December 26, which means that this Christmas will be my last day as a 32-year-old. The next day I'll feel so much older, even though just a day would have passed. (Or a minute, after 11.59 pm.) Every year this happens, and when the inevitable cannot be ignored, I adjust my definition of youth, adding one more year to it.
And I tell myself things like:
"My life isn't a waste yet. XXX wrote his first novel at [insert current age plus eight]."
"If I get a haircut and go the gym regularly, I might look younger."
"Writers need experience, they need to have lived. I'm living."
"Women like older men."
The last is a particular weak attempt, one that I never dare think in front of the mirror, lest I start laughing at myself. Immense old age creeps up.
(MR link via email from Shruti.)
