Friday, June 26, 2009
I don't feel old. Usually. But today I do. It's not physical; I don't feel tired, or worn-down, even if maybe I should. My body is chronologically 41 years old, at least according to the calendar. I shudder to think what one of those how-old-are-you-really? quizzes would reveal. Years of smoking (no, not anymore), alcohol (far more sporadic than in my youth, but I do have a shot of Firefly in my tea right now), rich food (yep, carrying far, far, more pounds than recommended), and not enough exercise (too much sitting on my ass) would certainly skew results in a direction I'd rather not see. That's why I don't take those quizzes. And even though I most often feel mentally closer to 30 (20?) than 40 (ok,14), today, I feel old. How is it possible that Charlie's hottest Angel is dead? How is it possible that the kid whose house my sisters and I used to imagine was around every corner in the greater Gary-Indiana-area is dead? Farrah Fawcett is supposed to have, well, Farrah-hair. She can't have been bald and decimated by anal cancer. Anal cancer? Ass cancer isn't sexy. (says the girl who's had ginormous polyps removed, is due for a five-year-fingers-crossed-all-clear colonoscopy, and, just for added kicks, juggles a wicked case of IBS) How the hell did that happen? To either of us? Michael Jackson wasn't supposed to be a lot of things that he ended up being, but he sure as hell wasn't supposed to be on an autopsy table. He's supposed to be moonwalking toward his comeback. Hell, he just started showing his kids without scarves over their faces. I had hopes for him circling back to (somewhere closer to) normal. I have been changing the channel during Farrah tributes, just as I had been over the past few months once the death watch was underway. No easy feat, mind you, as I am a major underwriter of the entertainment media, what with my serious jones for glossy supermarket tabloids and my dangerously addictive channelsurfing of news, music, and pop culture programming. I am just not up for watching Ryan O'Neal* -- or anyone, right now -- express how they are not ready to let the love of their life go to cancer. (*AND, shouldn't HE only have to have one iconic goodbye in his lifetime? Really? Not fair.) Michael Jackson, however, I can't ignore. No one can. Even my Led Zeppelin-loving husband has been watching coverage with me, albeit through a Phenergan-induced haze. Earlier, I had VH1 Classic's video marathon on while I was writing. Jamie was out cold, asleep, or so I thought. But then, I heard the familiar refrain of Thriller and I looked up. What I saw wasn't just a red-leathered MJ, but also my husband -- eyes barely open -- with his hands lifted and swaying back and forth along with the zombie choreography. That's transcendent. And that's why I'm not ready for my childhood to die. Because I'm not ready to yet.
Posted by CCW at 4:09 PM