It is Monday, July 14 and I did NOT go to my high school reunion on Saturday evening and because so many photos have been posted of the people with whom I shared a big cubical building a quarter of a century ago, today I’m feeling a hint of what I normally feel the weekend after BlogHer—comfort knowing that I lived in my nearly dead jeans all weekend sprinkled with a tiny bit of “Because of my own goofiness, I’ll now have to wait five more years (or a lifetime, because who’s the boss?) to speak with a horse whisperer.” Actually, to my knowledge, there has never been a horse whisperer at BlogHer. Such a long sentence, such a weak comparison. (One of my favorite people in high school later spent some time horse whispering. Isn’t it crap that life is so short? If only there was more time to do All Things. I’m 43 years old, and if I try to do a cartwheel, both of my legs will shatter. So many missed opportunities.)
Do I wear the jeans in public? I do. Because I’m David Lee Roth in a yellow floral tunic and Panama-aw-aw-aw-aw-aw.
Earlier this morning I read a Brain Pickings article about the passage of time and why it seems to get screwy during vacations and faster in old age yet slower when one is waiting for a train. Apparently, Nabokov was into the proportionality theory which says something like, “When judged in the context of your life, time seems faster when you’re an adult because a year is 1/43rd of your life rather than 1/6th of your life, and you can eat 1/43rd of a pie in two bites but I’m sure you would rather have 1/6th of the pie, unless it is a mincemeat pie, unless you are my grandpa who loved mincemeat pie.” (I’ve elaborated a bit with the pie thing, as I do.)
Some people believe that the proportionality theory is complete crap. Other people (so many people!), who refer to themselves as nostalgia psychologists, mention the reminiscence bump (a time during the late teens and early twenties) during which memories are so much clearer because it’s a time of milestones. (Streaking around an apartment building in the middle of the night! Eating a turkey on the roof of a house in the dead of winter! Line dancing during a snowstorm in the middle of a street on Groundhog Day! My reminiscence bump goes on for miles!) I can’t really remember when East Timor became a nation, but I can spout out every word of Licensed to Ill by the Beastie Boys. I can remember certain outfits that people wore in high school, yet I have no idea when I received my most recent tetanus shot. (I once met a man who had polio because he accidentally received two polio vaccinations. This information haunts me.)
I’m going to start referring to myself as a nostalgia psychologist Right Now.
Today will find us at a doctor appointment and at piano lessons. I’m also going to clean a bathroom and bake strawberry bread and practice writing some words—knowing that I won’t remember this day in 2018. (Or next week if we’re really being honest over here.) I hope your Monday is a good one.
I mean what I say,