 Reality
has a funny way of hitting you. Sometimes it walks right
up and slaps you in the face. Other times it cowardly
calls out to you from a dark doorway. Such was the case
a few days ago. I was taking a leisurely walk around my
neighborhood, minding my own business, when I was heckled
by a tag team of prepubescent boys. No doubt encouraged
by the latest episode of “Jackass,” they had
decided to make a day of screaming nonsensities out the
house to passersby. I turned to face the verbal snipers,
but saw only a couple of short shadows doubled over in
laughter, lurking in a dark doorway. Little did they know
who they had chosen to prey upon. In a verbal sparring
match, I could have easily taken both of them with my
tongue tied behind my back. But before I could challenge
my midget antagonists to come out and take it like the
little men they were, they blurted out one more unintelligible
taunt and slammed the door shut.
That’s when it hit me: I had gotten old.
See, in addition to being reduced to the intellectual
level of a third-grade boy, I had just been the unwitting
subject, no doubt, of a double dare. And as anyone who
has ever been a kid knows, these dares almost always involve
an oblivious adult victim and some sort of bold action
meant to shock and awe said adult. In this case, that
adult was me. That’s right, in these kids’
eyes, I was old – someone so creepy and hopelessly
uncool that I was worthy of being heckled. The Wicked
Pigeon Lady in the Garden; the Blair Witch; Boo Radley.
Mind you, this wasn’t the first sign of my movement
into the ranks of adultdom – just the first one
I chose to acknowledge. Perhaps I should have taken the
hint a few weeks earlier when my college neighbors let
me know about a bash they were throwing. Only problem
was, they weren’t telling me because they wanted
me to come over and enjoy a cold beer from one of their
17 kegs and mingle with their party guests. They were
informing me from a “don’t-call-the-cops-and-ruin-it-for-everyone-you-fuddy-old-teetotaler”
standpoint. Of course, being as over the hill as I am,
I didn’t quite catch on. When I asked what time
the festivities started (so I could get a good position
next to the keg) they assured me it would start at 6-ish
and end early. But, when 6 o’clock rolled around
and the kegs didn’t, I didn’t need my reading
glasses to get the picture. Lucky for them, old people
like me go to bed early and sleep like the dead (who can
hear anything over all that snoring, anyway?). The party
raged until (true to their word) the early hours, when,
incidentally, another neighbor not so hard of hearing
called the police.
So anyway, back to the snipers. There I was, standing
on the streets of Durango, my youth snatched from me like
a pleather purse full of pennies, travel-size Kleenex
and hard mint candies. I could have given chase but realized
with knees like mine, that could have been extremely painful
– both for participants and spectators.
But rather than wallow in self pity, I realized I was
really quite lucky that I had lived in oblivion this long.
All of my friends in the cities had faced the muzak years
ago – when they traded in their youthful ideals
for sensible sedans, stock portfolios, make-up, pantyhose
and pumps. I, of course, have none of that (I do own a
bike pump, but it’s not quite the same). In their
defense, my cityslicker cohorts may argue that I suffer
from delusions of Peter Panitis – to which I reply,
“No duh.” In fact, most of the toys that litter
my yard are similar to the ones that littered my yard
as a kid – bikes, skateboards, plastic boats, wiffle
ball bats, skis. I may look like an adult, but I still
wipe out, skin my knees, track dirt in the house and,
for the record, can swill cheap beers with the best of
’em. Which is precisely why I live where I do –
a giant playground where I am surrounded by like-minded
denialists who have never outgrown playing hooky. When
people here discuss what they do, they are referring to
their extracurricular activities – not their jobs.
Maybe someday I will have the courage to face the message
of my midget menaces and buy some no-nonsense business
suits and get a real job. But in the meantime, I’m
going riding. Has anyone seen my green tights?
-Missy Votel
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