I was writing up a budget report at work this afternoon when the friendly facilities worker popped her head into my cubicle to ask me if I had any garbage to throw out. I handed her my trash can and thanked her. “You’re welcome, kiddo,” she called over her shoulder as she moved on to the next cubicle. It was such an innocuous and mundane exchange, but it made me pause. Even now, hours after the fact, something compels me to relive that moment, and to remember. Kiddo. How much longer will it be before people stop thinking to call me that?
Hasn’t the world realized yet that I’m old, and tired, and incurably lame?
I guess I still look young enough on the surface to some people, but sometimes I feel like I’m a million miles away from my actual age. There comes a day in every adult’s life when he looks at the world for the first time without the benefit of a youthful, wide-eyed sense of discovery, when he beholds the tedium of his daily routines and the echoes of inevitable decay, when he steps aside from a lifetime of expectations and regretfully whispers, “Is this all there is to life?” I’ve lived that moment once or twice. If you stop and listen closely enough, you can almost hear God muttering Douglas Adams’ immortal words: “We apologise for the inconvenience.”
The rituals of existence find us willing participants in a dance of misdirection, misplaced faith, the placement of utter certainty in the least definite of petty assumptions, multiplied to the point of absurdity. This is the state of living.
On a completely unrelated note, I just thought I should mention that 2011 is the year that I turn 30. I think I’m handling it pretty well so far.
That probably festered in your mind after she said that. It reminds me of the Dane Cook routine when the girl turns and just quietly mutters over her shoulder “You’re just like your father.” If someone hasn’t seen that then what I said probably makes no sense at all.
Three “is”s are one too many.
βIs this is all there is to life?β
Yikes, good catch. You are forgiven for your previous nagging.
Listen, Kiddo, I just turned 42 this week. Don’t sweat turning 30. 30 is the new 29 π
You are too kind, Nicky. That’s just the kind of pep talk I’ve been needing lately. I didn’t realize I was fishing for it, but I guess I was. Happy belated birthday to you. π
And here I thought you were going to run over with pity for someone who is obviously so much older than you that they see you as a “kiddo”, and yet is a cleaning lady. Then again, maybe that’s her dream job.