Last week, I read somewhere that social media makes people feel less fulfilled so I took a week off from blogging and concentrated on my tangible life. BIG MISTAKE. There are many things I enjoy about the tangible world but not many people. I love my husband more than air and I wish I didn’t have to share him with anyone else. My best friend from my wild youth makes me laugh and tells me my anger is situational and has nothing to do with peri-menopause, menopause, lack of hormones, surplus of other hormones, or any of that hokey crap the advertisements would have you believe before you get depressed and schedule a face lift.
I am mourning the disappearance of another piece of cultural history. Lou Reed has kicked it. As I’ve said before, I will not be going to FL, ever, but I could be convinced to make a trip to F- L- A. The first time I tried marriage, I was introduced to Tom Waits and expanded my appreciation for Lou Reed, the Ramones and others prone to snarly, irreverent, musical disdain. Lou Reed was hot when he was young. He had nice lips. The Ramones weren’t as appealing but they had a cool name. Although, I suppose it wouldn’t be as cool if you were a Ramone, singular. I have never been mistaken for cool.
Lou Reed’s demise got me thinking about people I’ve known who’ve succumbed to self-inflicted disease, my brother among them. I have a tendency to romanticize everyone else’s life. I do not imagine other people smothering in the vanilla pudding of monotony that I must withstand. Except that they do. They must. Even Lou Reed did. I know my brother did. Hours of doctor’s appointments where money cannot extend your life, wishing you didn’t have to wait for test results, losing control of what you have and where you have it. I don’t know that they’d trade being dead for the common dullness of my ordinary life but maybe they would. Probably they’d make a deal with the devil, “I’ll live elroy’s life, I promise, just let me live again.” They’d get here, suss it out, and leave to get a pack of cigarettes, never to be heard from again.
My neighbors up the street are retired academics and anarchists. They are the sorts of people who still carry a small amount of cash, in a pocket separate from their wallets, in case they are arrested so they can make bail. They are in their late 70s. I admire them. They shine in comparison to some of the younger people I am acquainted with. Maybe you’ve met them too, the kids who identify with the Kardashians. The young adults who spend $10k that they don’t have on glitter they can’t afford so that they can posture for their peers. When they are my age who will they admire? I prefer the kids who buy nothing and make do with a good deal on a cheap adventure.
My friend is right. The anger I feel is situational. It has less to do with the depletion or surplus of hormones than it has to do with being chronically intolerant of bullshit. I don’t want to see your diamonds. Show me your heart.