Monday, May 22, 2006

The Looking Glass

I’m no longer one of those girls, with bangs and a ponytail, chewing a pencil’s end between dark-blue nails, sporting an ironic T-shirt, and over-swearing as I scribble animé in my duct-taped journal, flashing glances at Chai drinkers through turquoisey-glowing glasses, which I only wore to draw and to read and to look older.

Now I’m semi-corporate, still part ragamuffin and dash of poseur, posturing, wearing my glasses now not to embark on a literary journey or cartoon another installment of “Andy and Ben”--a strip about a punk and his tree-hugging sidekick--but to glean information from charts, perched at the monitor, feeling the buzzing migraine band creep across my temples, self-medicating with coffee at 4 PM and popping Ibuprofen like Tic-Tacs. The doctor tells me just to wear the glasses for reading the screen, that my actual vision is near perfect, but that one eye is near-sighted, the other is far-sighted, and though together they are fine, just the act of looking causes undue stress on both of them. She tells me this like I am an anomaly.

Special = weird.

This is the new angst. Listening to the doctor. Responsibility. Corporate hangovers. Being too young and too dumb to be considered an asset. Lost, adrift in a river of too-much, too-much. Too much wanting, too much ambition, much too much envy of Chanel wallets, Buddakan’s shortribs, exclusive parties, Belvedere and cranberry.

My muscles are sore from last night's Nia, my eyes bleary from typing, and I feel heavy. I can feel the weight of my body, the stress on my bones, and for the first time. I feel like a lumbering animal, heaving my way through the day, thumping my feet ungracefully, toes cramming into leather stillettoed points.

Painful shoes. Grumbling. Memos.

This is it.

This is what it means to be an adult.

First, my eyes will get worse, to the point where I’ll have to wear glasses all the time or get contacts.

Then my hearing will go.

Soon my joints will soften, only reminding me of their presence when it’s about to rain.

Unbuttered toast and Matlock, just around the bend…

Is this me, now? Through my glasses, in the looking glass?


Mike said...

Hang on. Let me check the blogger rulebook....

Yep, there it is. Page 119. And I quote, "Bloggers under the age of 28 are not allowed to complain about getting old."

K said...

Mike--you are so right...

I don't have a right to moan yet--but still, it's Monday, and I want to complain :)

Cheetarah1980 said...

K, you are so right. Mondays suck. Wanna do my job for me.

Madame DeBarge said...

Mike-hey, I'm 26, and I really do have plenty to complain about!

I hear you on the eyesight thing. I have one far and one near sighted eye, and can see okay without glasses, but need correction on the near sighted eye...I've actually argued with an optician's nurse about giving me glasses, when I'd been wearing them for 10 years...

Don't worry, by the time we're old, Matlock will finally be gone.

Lynn said...

Sounds like you are having a baaaaad day. Or you have accepted adulthood--and yes--it kinda sucks. Just make sure to match it minute for minute with friends, love, laughter and .....sleep.

Madox23 said...

I feel the same way too, I wish I could blog at work, my job you open your work email and the boss gives you an upside down smile, automatically. My job is pretty lame as Jane Austen said “life is quick succession of busy nothings,” life at work is beginning to become that.

Just me said...

The life of an in-between-er.


Wait till you get Mike's age!