[Old People Are Not Scary Anymore]

I used to be afraid of old people.

Old people smell funny. Their declining health is an all-too apparent testament to our human impermanence. Not to mention that they are often crabby, hard of hearing, hard to understand, and endlessly reminiscent of the past. Anymore, though, I don't mind old people. Old age is too far away for me to fear in any kind of meaningful way.

Now I am afraid of middle-aged people.

Because, you know, middle-age and its own particular set of horrors is just TOO DAMN CLOSE.
Getting wrinkles, getting fat, raising kids, saving for retirement, going to bed at 9 so you can be at work at 9 the next day. They cover up their tattoos and try to forget about their college days. It all sounds so boring, so mundane, so frightening in its very anomaly to the life I know now.

I just saw a couple pushing a stroller of twins. The children were fighting and their middle-aged parents looked harried and worn.

 I think I'm going to go out with some friends now, drink and dance and stay out till 3 am, sleep till 12, and do it again the next night. I think I'll get a tattoo while its still acceptable to show it, and I'll blast my grunge and post-grunge rock from my headphones. I think I'll run and stay active while my legs still work properly, before I hear the tell-tale aches and feel the tell-tale pains of middle-age. I pledge not to start saving for retirement yet, not to contemplate my future too much, and not to have kids for another few years at least! I pledge to have fun while I still can.

Because, you know, you're only young once.

[Crunch]

  Self-denial.
  That’s all it comes down to actually – the ability to deny yourself a thing that you want very, very badly. Some people call self-denial self-control.
  Self-denial is my weakness.
  I am tough. I can endure. I am tough to the point where I simply ignore pain; I suppose I’ve learned how to work through it – either that, or my scorn for anything “weak” prevents me from giving in. I can endure with the dogged determination that must’ve gotten soldiers through the Normandy invasion alive. I am so tough, and so determined in my endurance, that I have made myself weak.
  Today, I am going out to dinner. Dinner with good friends, to celebrate the end of a week of hard work, long nights, mid-terms, and the daily hum-drum and buzz of student life.
  We sit at a table, and everyone picks up the menus, oohing and aahing over the succulent, mouth-watering offerings; the best our limited student budgets can afford. I pick up mine, with two criteria in mind. Already, I’m looking for the cheapest dinners, and the healthiest. As I peruse the menu, my eyes scan buttery, carb-heavy, calorie-laden options that sound, oh, so satisfying. I’d like to order the beer-battered chicken; I’d like to try those sweet potato fries, or the pasta with the creamy, cheesy sauce. And oh, the desserts – shouldn’t even look at those.
  I’ve learned to just throw away half my meal before I even start eating.
  So I look at the menu, for vegetables, but the salads, served with heavy dressings,  sound just as bad (good?) as anything prepared without lettuce, tomatoes, or olives as its main ingredient. Everyone is chattering, laughing, trying to decide what to order. I can’t join in. I can’t talk. I can’t do anything until this crucial, all-important, life-changing decision is made.
  But now everyone else has ordered, and I’m still trying to decide. Which is worse for me – the chicken pasta or the chicken sandwich? I ate yogurt for breakfast, and eggs with toast for lunch. I want the patty melt on rye with sweet potato fries on the side (my favorite)…I did go running today.
  The waitress stands at my side. She taps her pen. Other tables are waiting on you, I imagine her saying. I order the chicken sandwich with vegetables on the side. I’ll throw away the bread, okay?
  Now I can relax, and so I join in the conversation. I forget how stressed I was a moment ago, and now all my worry seems silly. It’s just a meal, one little meal, right? I remind myself that I ran four miles earlier.
  And then the food arrives. As everyone else’s pleasure begins, my torture commences. I pull the top bun off my sandwich instantly, before I can even start to think how good the thing would be un-demolished. Already I feel better. Look how strong I am. I have so much self-control! I eat the vegetables first. I cut my sandwich in half. I feel stronger. I eat slowly. Oh, I can deny myself anything. Oh, I have so much self-control.
  Courtney offers extra sweet potato fries to anyone who wants them. They look so good, so warm, so fresh, so buttery. I pass the plate to the girl next to me. Oh, I am so strong.
  Everyone is done eating, we’ve paid, we’re preparing to leave. I ask for a box, I’ll take my cut-in-half, top-bunless-chicken sandwich home. 

  Jess looks at my plate and says, accusingly, You didn’t eat very much.
  Yeah, you need to eat more, they all chime in.
  I hate it.
  Oh, I had a big snack before we came, I lie. Don’t worry, I tell them.

(I like writing in the first person, okay? Maybe that's all this is about. Maybe none of this real. Maybe you should just take this literally. This is fiction after all, right?)

[Life Is...]

Life is a puzzle.
A puzzle that cannot be figured out.
Life is a web.
A web the deftest spider cannot untangle.
Life is a mystery.
A mystery too complex for solution.
Life is hard.
So hard, sometimes I want to quit.
Life is confusing.
So confusing, I often lose my way.
Life is unpredictable.
So unpredictable, I give up on my dreams.
Life twists and life turns.
Wicked, winding, twists and turns.
Life gives and life takes.
Some pleasant, some unwelcome, gifts and dues.
Life shocks and life surprises.
Shocks for better or for worse.
Life is a thief.
Emotions, feelings torn and stolen.
Life is a story.
Decisions, revisions made without us.
Life is a gift.
Breaths, thoughts given finitely.
 Life frightens, and life strengthens.
      Life teaches, life changes.
           Life exhilarates, and life hurts.
                Life is beautiful.