Being an adult can be pretty cool. I get to have provolone whenever I want. The way I remember it, provolone was a special treat when I was growing up. Cheese usually meant New York Sharp Cheddar or occasionally those big government blocks of orange stuff. But provolone was special. It has this great, smooth taste. And it was round! The only other non-cubicle cheese I had any experience with were those things you get at Christmas with nuts all over the outside. I mean… my grandparents had round cheese. But it was always blue cheese or soft stuff. Blue cheese is mold, so… you know… ew. And cheese shouldn’t be soft and gooey. Butter is soft and gooey… not cheese. But occasionally we could get provolone. I don’t remember ever having it after Morelli’s closed. But Morelli’s had a little, mini deli counter thing. We could go in there and tell them how much money we had for this, and they knew just how much to cut. I can even remember going in there once with my own money, and buying it as a snack. Not a ten-cent popsicle, or fried pig-skins. But provolone. There was a little thrill involved… doing something surely wrong.
You can add that to my list of geek-hoods. Cheese Geek.
I don’t even know how long it’s been since I had a winter wardrobe?. I distinctly remember having winter and summer clothes, that were stored away in chests and closets during the off-season. Never liked that of course, because it meant giving up my favorite clothes. But outside a couple sweaters and my heavy coat, I don’t have much in the way of seasonal wear anymore. Spending so much time inside, even my shorts and sandals get continuous wear throughout the year.
I was thinking earlier tonight, as I stood at the window smelling the summer, how much I missed summer evenings in small towns. It meant coming in, tired and dirty. You could feel the day unwinding, like a cat yawning and hunting for that perfect spot to take a nap. You saw neighbors who’d just finished their days. The windows were open, of course, so you could still hear the city finding its way home. It’s not so much the event, as the feeling. Sort-of a tired joy, with no worries about tomorrow.
Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine does a good job of capturing the mood.
I also stood watching Pixel, just after I’d fed her, earlier tonight. I leaned against the corner in the kitchen, sweating from the humidity. Something about taking care of her is so much more real and tangible than all the other so-called adult things I do. Doesn’t hurt, I suppose, that there’s some very tangible feedback involved. It was sort of a mellower versions of one of those, “Whoa…. this is my life” moments. A sudden burst of self-awareness. You can see exactly where you are in the scale of everything in your life. Or maybe it’s just me feeling old, in bits and pieces?
Where am I? No idea. Some things in my life are so very adult and as-expected, that it’s almost depressing in it’s mundanity. Other things I do or have leave me feeling like I’m refusing to grow up and be responsible. I don’t have a reference point on many of these things, either, which makes it harder. My mother admits to having watched a lot of TV. But no adult I knew growing up could have spent time on the ‘Net. How does that measure up? Are reading things online that your friends have written, or seeing what artists have created, any more or less a reasonable thing to do than watching Carol Burnette? Going out to clubs and bars is something wholly new to my life. There were no clubs and bars where I grew up. Well… bars, yes. But not quite to the social extent they are here. My apartment certainly doesn’t look adult to me. But then, my friends are practically still living in frat houses. And, you know… a complete lack of romantic female companionship makes it hard to tell if I even could manage an adult relationship.
But is there anything inherently bad in the way I live my life? No. I’m no hermit by any means. I’m always looking for new things to scare myself with. I take full advantage of the freedom offered by a single life.
So yeah…
I got that going for me.