It stopped raining, but I haven’t managed to convince my old folks to organize this little barbecue party we had planned before it started. They had a voluminous list of not-to reasons, including the unwelcome but perfectly understandable presence of dew and mosquitos. This sounded putrid enough to make me stop and wonder. We all know how advanced age comes to an end but how (and when) does it begin? Where's the scratch which announces the most curious of all races: one whose rule is to slow down on your way rather than the opposite; one in which finishing before others makes you lose? Is conception the very off? Or is there a virus lurking, waiting for an unguarded moment just to filter in and install this oh-forget-it button now to be pressed with a frequency directly proportional to the passing of time?
Naturally, no one ever admits they’re growing old (read: giving up). It’s always their own well-being and freedom of choice, their adult right to pick and choose, or the sake of warmth and comfort. But it’s also a trap. It’s entering the place where the candystripe-legged spider waits to weave your personal, eternal cocoon. Each of us has their age of consent to this. Fortunately, it's ontogenetic.
And how does it apply to me? Well, there have been concerts I went to but finally missed due to the length of queues, there have been those countless mornings slept through and wasted. Still, at the very same time I would work my ass off four days a week just to afford a ten-hour couch journey to the capital on the fifth day of every other week. What for? Well, there was something missing in terms of my university education, or so I thought. Picture a year of frequent 5:30 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. violations of basic human rights, acts of incarceration of the bladder (only released twice on the way). The return ticket entitled me to a series of horrifying experiences, nocturnal rides back home with drivers notoriously speeding and jumping the lights. And now? I’m sitting in the company of those after-rain mosquitos, let alone other insects too close for comfort, on a day too cold for comfort. I’m wearing the wrong kind of clothes and my feet (one still healing) are recklessly diving in the evening dew. Does this mean I haven’t been infected with the old age virus yet? Hopefully. To be on the safe side, my look-out is womanned and armed. Anti-ageing cosmetics? No, just obstinacy.
Naturally, no one ever admits they’re growing old (read: giving up). It’s always their own well-being and freedom of choice, their adult right to pick and choose, or the sake of warmth and comfort. But it’s also a trap. It’s entering the place where the candystripe-legged spider waits to weave your personal, eternal cocoon. Each of us has their age of consent to this. Fortunately, it's ontogenetic.
And how does it apply to me? Well, there have been concerts I went to but finally missed due to the length of queues, there have been those countless mornings slept through and wasted. Still, at the very same time I would work my ass off four days a week just to afford a ten-hour couch journey to the capital on the fifth day of every other week. What for? Well, there was something missing in terms of my university education, or so I thought. Picture a year of frequent 5:30 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. violations of basic human rights, acts of incarceration of the bladder (only released twice on the way). The return ticket entitled me to a series of horrifying experiences, nocturnal rides back home with drivers notoriously speeding and jumping the lights. And now? I’m sitting in the company of those after-rain mosquitos, let alone other insects too close for comfort, on a day too cold for comfort. I’m wearing the wrong kind of clothes and my feet (one still healing) are recklessly diving in the evening dew. Does this mean I haven’t been infected with the old age virus yet? Hopefully. To be on the safe side, my look-out is womanned and armed. Anti-ageing cosmetics? No, just obstinacy.
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