Yes, I’ve been busy.
Two shows up and running. A stack of grant apps signed, sealed, and delivered. A little more work on the house. A never-ending to-do list of bills, taxes, chores, and errands. As Fred Schneider once said, the party goes on forever…
In fact, things got so delightfully overwhelming that day before yesterday, my body shut down. It does that every so often–usually right after I’ve finished a major project. This time, the meltdown followed the opening weekend of Bluebeard: I was out walking the hounds, and I felt a stabbing pain in my stomach. By the time I got back to the house, I was having chills. I stayed home from work, wrapped under covers on the living room sofa, trying to find positions that wouldn’t make me nauseous.
Less than 24 hours and two bowls of the bf‘s chicken soup later, it was over, and I felt stupid. Thanks to my innately high stress-level, I’ve been through this a zillion times since 4th grade. You’d think that by now I’d be able to see trouble brewing on the horizon and chill out, but apparently I’m not that clever–which makes me a little concerned about the future. At this rate, by the time I hit retirement I’ll be a shriveled knot of ulcers and boils: the sort of person fit only to write romance novels or perform character roles in summer-stock productions of The Tempest. Ugh. How ever will I find the courage to face the throngs of aging, addled circuit fags lounging by the pool of our retirement villa in Fort Lauderdale?
Still, other than those two issues (my ill-balanced humours and a fear I’ll succumb to the “gay retirement lifestyle”), I’m not really the sort of guy who’s concerned about getting older. Frankly, older is where it’s at (as the non-old ones say these days). Our elders get yes-sirred and no-m’amed, and they get good seats on the bus. And in my book, older men are about 50 times sexier than their juniors. What’s not to look forward to?
In all honesty, the one thing that truly concerns me about getting older is my lack of energy. Well, not energy, per se, but, like, creative energy. I mean, I don’t write nearly as much as I used to. I don’t read as much, either. I feel like I’m losing language skills left and right. I feel like I’ve got a couple of books in me, somewhere–though I guess it’s possible that they’ve already come out as blog entries or plays. And then again, if the writing urge isn’t so strong in me right now, maybe I shouldn’t push it. I mean, who wants to read stuff written by someone who’s not really compelled to write?
Kinda like this crap.
sturtle [dot] com 