Locomotive Hootenanny

Yesterday, while writing the expiration date on a bottle of syrup, which is a thing that is good for a month, I stumbled. Without hesitation I wrote, “01/01/” and then cried, “I don’t even know how to write this. ‘10?’ This shouldn’t be! It’s not a real date. It’s like some kind of binary code!”

01/01/10

I swear I actually said all of that, in full, to the amusement of my coworkers. But really, I was tangled up in Deep Thought. Do you know how old I was on 01/01/00? I know how old I was, and it horrifies even me. I was thirteen. Thirteen! I was in effin’ middle school, for christ’s sake!, mapping the world by heart and agonizing over boys at school-sponsored dance nights downtown. I was celebrating that the school dork was beaten up at lunch, right before we acted out the balcony scene of R+J, kiss and all, in English. I wouldn’t have to kiss him in front of my crush who’d later become a good for nothin’, praise be! Good gravy - I was meeting friends under the oak tree to hand out NanoPets to pet-sit for the day! And now, now! I’ve been through high school. I have a goddamn college degree, which has proven mostly useless, but I have one! Let’s not get detailed, but a lot of things happen between the ages of 13 and 23. It’s sort of wild to think that this may have been the most quickly developing decade of my life. And this upcoming one, ages 23 to 32 (a palindrome!) may rival it in a way.

Good goodness. I think I’m a little panicked. Do I sound it? Sometimes I think I did ten years of living all wrong, I didn’t pack in enough and I treated some people terribly. And while I can say, “Geez, give yourself a break. Your entire teen years were spent in it!” is that really the problem, or did I just become complacent to the passing of days and my actions within them? I must learn to not dilly-dally so much. Create more. Say more. I would say “Try to be more,” but that sounds trite and nauseating. You get the point! Carpe diem! Oof. That sounds even worse.

Panicked Issue Two. I often try to grapple with the idea of if not reading is a sign of selfishness. I haven’t been able to stay interested in a book long enough to finish it in months. At least I am reading a little bit, I suppose. But, the question remains: are those who don’t read selfish? Are they forcing a conversation be dumb down? Perpetuating a society of dunces, as it goes? Looking at this from the opposite side, is reading purely for the enjoyment of the reader, or is his reading as much a benefit to his peers?

Ick, shoot, reading back on that, I think I’m just giving things too much meaning. Stop it, me. Go back to trying to find a place to purchase petticoats.