Hello, Failure

Of all the enemies of literature, success is the most insidious

Monday, June 30, 2003

Failure of the Day: OLD

I'm pooped. And Chris is even more pooped than me. He never gets run down or sick, but he has had a nagging cough for going on 3 weeks now.

Part of it is that neither of us has had a vacation in over a year and a half, but do you know what else it is? I'm mortified at just how utterly, utterly true this: it's that we're old. Me, I could never run around without getting sick, but for Chris this is something of a revelation. He's made of iron, I swear to god. He can go for days at a time with neither sleep nor food. I've seen it.

He turns 37 in a few weeks; I'll turn 37 four months after that. Last night we watched a bit of VH1's I Love the 80s tribute to 1981 (as if that weren't enough of a give-away of our general decrepitude). I remember 1981 really clearly. 1981 sucked. 1989, now that was a good year. I could do all kinds of things in 1989 that are totally impossible for me now—and I don't just mean sleeping with incredibly arrogant singers of local bands. But I digress. My point is that my very own youth is now the stuff of popular nostalgia. And that is very weird indeed.

I don't actually have any sort of horror of aging; really, it's mostly just fascinating to me—the body never runs out of things to do that are totally weird. And on the plus side, I've been looking forward to being a prime number age again, so 37 should be pretty cool. But seriously, our vacation next month can't come soon enough.


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