In a few days it will be Chinese New Year – ushering in the Year of the Rooster. For those of you who know next-to-nothing about Chinese astrology, let me fill you in.
If you were born in 1971 or 1972, as most of my friends were, then next year is not going to be anything to sing about. It’s predicted that pigs and rats are only going to have an average year. Since the rooster year symbolizes the flaw of taking yourself or your accomplishments too seriously, it is not a particularly good year for overestimating yourself. In other words, don’t do anything drastically different this year or you might live to regret it. The rooster, you see, crows about himself whether or not he’s worthy of it, which can have a tendency to go terribly wrong. So, if you were planning on changing careers, moving to Australia, or trying out kickboxing – think again.
Alternatively, you could just say “That’s bollocks!” and move along to attempt anything you wish. Up to you. Just don’t come crying to your fellow rat when your tail gets burned.
Because it’s the time of year to clean house, give red packets filled with money to those who work for you (also to children and any single friends), and change things, my mind has been veering toward the topic of AGING. Even the best of us eventually go down the “I saw my first grey pubic hair” road, and it can be quite devastating. Especially to those of us who were a bit vain to begin with. Perhaps those not as gifted consider aging as a leveler – like death. At 60, it doesn’t really matter anymore who is better looking because we all have one foot on a banana peel.
In Harbin, I spent time with a group of people, mostly women, who were all at least 25 years older than me. Now, most of them, if not all of them, had loads and loads of money to cushion the blow of being over 50. However, I believe that it might have also dulled their senses a bit, as most were incredibly polite, generous and boring-as-all-hell. I think it was also the incredible divide of the generational gap.
For instance, at one point I came back from a mid-dinner trip to the bathroom and was asked to settle a dispute about marijuana. All parties simply assuming that I would know what I was talking about. I preceded to tell them that 1.) no, there was no difference between marijuana and cannabis (cannabis being the more scientific name) and that 2.) no, cocaine and heroin did not actually come from the same plant, but from two entirely different ones (the coca plant and the poppy). Then, I detailed that you could both smoke or inject heroin, it being a personal choice, but that injecting did give you a considerably bigger high. At the end of my summation on the drug topic, all faces were not only turned toward me intently, but there were actually some dropped jaws. I’m fairly certain that some of them think I am a former (or perhaps current) user.
But the thing that worried me the most about being with these people was this: they had traveled all over the world, had children, did everything that you could think of doing and yet they were entirely soulless. They were, simply put, old THINKING. Ugh. I spent the rest of the trip explaining their children to them, all of whom happened to be my age. That no, we don’t consider having careers really, but jobs. And yes, we have incredible difficulty with the whole marriage, kids thing because we watched too many 80s movies and think unrealistically about these things. And, basically, none of us have a clue what it is that we really want out of life anymore than we can accurately tell you where we will be at their age. Except in debt, for the vast majority of us, especially those of us who have children. So they should stop worrying about their kids being abnormal because if being confused and/or fucked up is being abnormal, well, then, I would just eat my shoe. In other words, their children and their problems were 100% postmodernism normal.
Which got me thinking about my own life and my own set of confusing problems. And the one thing I do know for sure is that A.) I am far from boring and B.) I am far from normal and C.) I do not, under any circumstances, want to end up like most of the people I traveled with to Harbin. I want to have a vibrant life where I do not confuse boring conversation with keeping my opinions to myself. I want to be a real person – not someone who just goes through the motions of politeness. Hell, if I’m still insecure at 50, then what is the point of all of this? Really, I’d like to know. There aren’t a hell of a lot of people out there carrying the torch past the age of 35, that I know for certain.
I read a quote the other day that said: Don’t dare to be different. Dare to be yourself. If that doesn’t make you different, then something is truly wrong.
So, as a consequence of all of this, I have decided to dye the front part of my hair on one side pink. Pale, rock-star pink. Because I have always wanted to do it. When I was about 9 years old my favorite things were the color pink and Blondie. I thought that Deborah Harry was just about the most gorgeous, coolest thing I had ever seen. (I still think this.) The most vivid memory I have is seeing the front cover of the album Parallel Lines. Blondie in a white dress, white high-heel clogs, with her shock of blond hair in the front. So I am getting that Blondie shock of hair in pink. I’m not going quietly people. I choose, finally, to be myself, regardless of whether or not it is polite or fashionable.
Recent Comments