Well, the truth of the matter is, kind of me. I had dressed to the nines, strappy heels and all. We'd had an elegant dinner at the Tea Room in our hotel, and the night was young. We stepped out into the night, and the cobbled streets of Temple Bar to people watch and see what the craic was. For my non-Irish affiliated, the craic is an Irish term for "what's happening."
On this particular Saturday night, like most, the Bar was chockablock. Most of the crowd was comprised of twenty-somethings, or maybe even a few thirty-somethings. I looked good. Jeph looked good. That said, my footwear didn't exactly leave me as nimble and agile as I wanted to be. I'm sure it's just that I don't wear heels everyday, but it was annoying to me that I was having so much trouble and that half of the women around me were tromping around the Bar like freaking gazelles in similar footwear and worse. It hurt my pride.
We stopped and watched a couple of guys who were playing some blues outside a restaurant. Jeph was stoked. I'm not personally a blues girl, so we watched for a bit and moved on. We thought we'd duck into another bar in the district, and we followed some fairly cool looking people into a club that sounded to be hopping. As soon as we walked in, we quickly realized we didn't belong there--not to mention the fact that there was a fairly foul odor I don't think I could describe.
I didn't want to give up, so we pressed on. Every step I took was more precarious than the last, and I knew that I was sacrificing my feet for style. I felt like a fool.
When we finally decided to give up the fight, we still had to make it back all the way to the hotel--through the throngs of people, and the same distance of cobbled road my pride had made us traverse in the first place. We tried to hug the sides of the cobbles and stick to the sidewalks to spare my already blistered toes any little bit of skin they had left. Unfortunately, these sidewalks were jam-packed with people, and most of them were waiting outside of clubs or bars. We tried to walk around these crowds, and politely excuse our way through. At one point, a lippy young woman mouthed off to me, and surprisingly I was the one who felt mortified.
In that moment, I felt so out of place, and so old, I just wanted to rip my pretty shoes off and race back to our room.
When we did get back to the room, Jeph was bummed about coming back early, and frustrated with me for what I'd done to my feet in the process. He was sad to think that this was the last night we'd have in Dublin that wouldn't be followed by a day of travel, and I'd squandered it.
As we discussed the situation, the one thing that we could agree on was that we weren't young hipsters, up for spending the night out partying and hanging out anymore. Truth be told, we probably never were quite like that, but now we really weren't (aren't) full stop.
It led us to think about our age--something we've done a lot of this year. When forty rolled around at the end of last year, I didn't give it any weight. So what? For the first time in years, I wear what I want. I do my hair however I like. I feel like I reflect more of what's inside than I have since I was much younger. I don't care that some people still give me a sideways glance since I colored my hair. I don't care that some people don't like tattoos. I am who I am. Being forty didn't seem to matter. I didn't think about the number putting any kind of limit on me. I know that Jeph had approached this year in much the same way. For him, it started with growing some sideburns, scoring his first pair of Doc Martens and a handful of pearl snap shirts.
Nearly a year down the road, I know I was wrong, in some respects, to be so half full about everything. Things I want to do physically just aren't as easy as they would have been at another time. And I know Jeph feels the same way. While his pulmonary embolism was definitely not age related, the limitations that go hand in hand with his risk factors make him feel tied and bound--like someone much older.A common theme in our society is that once you get to be a certain age, there are things you just have to accept. Maturity dictates that you don't throw fits when you want to. Responsibility means that you shun frivolity. Stability means you embrace habit. Maybe you used to be able to touch your toes and you no longer can. Maybe you're afraid to mountain bike on rough trails in case you cut yourself and your blood thinners that save you from dangerous clots, make you bleed like a stuck pig.
We saw the new James Bond movie this afternoon. One of the undercurrents of the plot was the idea that Bond and operatives like him were a thing of the past, easily replaced by the new and the technologically proficient. Anyone who's a Bond fan can surmise that 007 proved the naysayers wrong. His wealth of experience and long term connection was the foundation for a perspective that was much broader than up and coming techie geniuses who mocked his methods. Years of injuries and physical abuse certainly made the job harder for him, but it's who he is that makes him so invaluable.
Now, Jeph and I are certainly not as cool as James Bond--few people are. But, in our hearts, we also aren't forty-something. We're probably not twenty-something either. I think we're some mystical, non-existent age that just isn't fortyish. In our hearts, we're still dreaming and trying to find a way to live the life we want. And maybe it's not about our age. It's about who we are, and where we fit and where we don't. Some days, who we are imprisons us. We're the solid, reliable souls among our peers. We don't always let everyone know that we're in the gutter, because we're trying to remind ourselves not to forget to look at the stars.
Jeph frequently refers to himself as a cog in the machinery. Just a piece within the equipment that other people use to get the job done. I know I often identify with that feeling. And maybe that's what we really are. But maybe it doesn't matter what everybody else thinks. He may be a cog, but when I look at him, he's the cog that isn't covered in the grease and grime of overuse, because he's what tries to make the machinery of dreaming for more work for me.
At the end of the Saturday night, these objects are cooler than they appear--blistered feet, bent dreamscapes, tears shed, and all.
Stay Young, Go Dancing--Death Cab For Cutie
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