Saturday, February 05, 2011

Old Man at the Baths

Probably this used to work really well for him. In the Seventies or whatever. If not for happiness, then at least for bliss. For pain-killing at least.

It’s hard to admit when things don’t work so well anymore. It sure is for me.

Such as “cute”. At age almost 38, my personal version of cute is seriously threadbare. Though not yet grotesque, I hope. Some people think I manage handsome. Admittedly nearly all of these people are biased by factors such as nearsightedness, blood relation, or my willingness to listen at length to their personal problems.

This old man was once somebody’s baby. When he came into the world, people cried with joy. His parents imagined him. They imagined his tricycle. His finger-painting. His high school graduation. They saw his wedding perfectly, even though it never happened.

They probably didn’t imagine him, aged 62, fiddling with himself beneath a wet blue washcloth.

If you ask me, I think we all ought to be eggregiously lovable for a much longer time. Nevermind developing spiritual qualities. I’d rather just be 72 and hot.

Nevertheless, my good intentions do not erase an undercurrent of fear. Sit-ups, moisturizer and protein powder don’t go so far at all.

Thus, here at my pre-wizening, since I see no way out and no other option, I have formed a new intention:

Starting today I am going to love people for no reason at all.

Then again, I mean this in an abstract way. Like, meditation. I do not actually intend to take this old man into my arms.

And abstract love is not what he is looking for.

And neither am I.

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