Jay Elias | You can take it with you

"I have wasted Time, and now doth
Time waste me"
- Richard II

2002-05-02- 12:27 a.m.

Looking Glass Self

When I was in high school, I had long hair that I used to wear in a pony tail. When my hair got long, it got rather wavy, which I couldn't stand, so I got in the habit of putting it in a pony tail while it was still wet, so that my hair would stay straight. When I would go to school or out with friends on cold winter days, it used to freeze, and when I took my coat off, I would feel the cold bite of the icicle my hair had become against the back of my neck. It used to infuriate my friend Julie; she would tell me everything from that it was terrible for my hair to chastising me that I was going to catch pneumonia.
I hated smoking anywhere near my house as a kid. I started smoking at thirteen; that is to say, I started buying my own packs at that age. I had my first cigarette at seven, but that is a whole other story. I know for a fact that the first time I was caught by my parents was at the age of fifteen, and I wonder sometimes if they didn't know until then. It is a troublesome subject, what your parents knew. As a teenager, I always assumed that they were fooled by my lies and omissions. I thought I was a master of deceit. But now I wonder. Did they know more than they let on, choosing to fight their battles at me either when they could no longer avoid it or when they thought the time was right? Thinking back now, at how lame and ham-fisted my excuses and explanations were, I find the idea that I really did draw the wool over their eyes so completely utterly depressing. To imagine them as unable to see through my adolescent falsehoods means they are not nearly as bright as I thought they are, and that terrifies me. I remember one night at fifteen, drinking with my friends and coming home and almost instantly vomiting in the bathroom and chalking it up to an undercooked burger I ate at Wendy's. At the time, I thought I had gotten away clean, but it seems so obvious now that they must have known. But, the shame of it all is, one can hardly hope to learn the truth. I can't imagine being able to ask my mother, "Hey, remember when I was fifteen and came home drunk and puked and told you I had food poisoning? Did you really buy that?"
In order to get a chance to have a cigarette when I was home, I used to always offer to walk the dog. I could wander far from the house, and smoke in peace while the dog did her thing. It's funny; I had pretty much lost interest in the dog until it dawned on me what a useful beard she could be for my bad habits. It wasn't much help, of course. At best, I would get to walk the dog twice a day after school, and could maybe smoke four cigarettes in those two trips. Weekends were worse, but I could usually count on a chance to go out at night and get in some serious chain smoking. The worst of all, though, was snow days. On snow days, I'd be trapped in the house, with no chance of going anywhere (my parents would have sooner broken my legs with a baseball bat than allowed me to get in someone's car on a snow day). My dog walks on snow days would become epic journeys, lasting until the dog almost tore the leash out of my hand in a dash to return home and escape the cold. And when I think of snow days, my neck forever breaks out in gooseflesh, cellular memories of a frozen ponytail from a long hike in the snow, long since shorn.
Last Thursday. A week ago now. I ate my lunch standing outside on the Upper West Side in the pouring rain, huddling under the canopy of a doorman building. I stayed largely dry, but the wind drove the rain into puddles in my takeout plate until I gave up in frustration. And then I had an awful realization that was a long time coming: I hate the rain now. I hate the snow. I live in Manhattan, in a pedestrian city. I don't get to stay dry when it rains anymore; I don't get to skip walking four avenues to the subway if it snows. And it felt so awful, and so grown up. When I was a child, snow seemed like magic, the hand of God reaching down and turning the entire world into a playground. When I was a teenager, I loved rainy afternoons, lying on the couch and reading a book and listening to the thunder. Now all the magic is lost, replaced by concerns for my dry-clean only pants, the inconvenience of having to reshine my shoes. All my mundane needs and concerns outweigh any concerns I have for the simply poetry of life itself. I'm a grown-up now I suppose. I care about mortgage rates. I know how much it will hurt me someday that I don't have a 401k yet. I'm finished with my time of dancing about architecture.
I'm really careful about having dry hair before I go outside now. Anyone who has smoked as long as me needs to be careful about getting pneumonia.

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If you want to make me
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Older

Doesn't Take Much and That's Messed Up - 2004-03-15
Like Water Under Bridges - 2003-09-08
Jesus On The Dashboard - 2003-08-13
An Administrative Announcement - 2003-08-11
Don't Worry, It's Coming - 2003-08-02

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