Shouldn’t I know better than this at my age? Eating cake for breakfast?
Three birthday cakes, and counting. At this rate, I’ll have to spend the entire next month at the gym in order to work off the birthday weight. This morning’s breakfast slice was from last night’s cake which was iced with the loving phrase; “HAPPY BIRTHDAY UNCLE NUTTY.” My nephew likes to use what can loosely be called “pet names” and that is one of his for me. The sobriquet with which I am most frequently addressed is “Uncle Potty Mouth” – but that didn’t fit on the cake.
So, as I’m riding this birthday-carbohydrate-sugar high and I am feeling pretty damn good about things, here comes more Harry Louis in my Twitter feed. In case you don’t know, Harry Louis is the 24-year-old, porn star boyfriend of designer, Marc Jacobs. Mr. Jacobs happens to be 50 years old and happens to have a birthday six days before mine. For his birthday, he and Harry went to Rio. Suddenly, I felt a little less good about things.
And so, okay, let’s review. Marc and I, we were both young once, and we had longer hair then, and we’ve looked – well – worse than we do now. See?
Marc Jacobs young.
So, uhm, yeah. And we both go to the gym now. Somehow, it seems to be taking a little better on him, however.
Marc Jacobs, older, gymming it.
Me, older, gymming it.
And so, yeah, see? Inequity. And while Marc Jacobs gets to go to Rio with porn star boyfriend and hang on the beach:
I end up at the toxic Jersey shore with … well …
I know, right? I was so embarrassed when he Tweeted that Anne Frank thing. But, you know, he’s young, and I like to call those little nuggets of his (by which I mean his foolish pronouncements and Tweets, you filth mongers) “chicken nuggets” – for reasons which will elude most of you and amuse greatly those of you for whom I am really writing. Chicken nuggets are the price you pay for spending time with someone young. Someone who needs the wisdom you’ve acquired.
Speaking of which; it would be a poor use of my decades of life-experience if I could not claim to have learned a thing or two and what good is a blog if I don’t pontificate about these deep truths? So, I thought long and hard (well, semi-hard, I am after all, not all that young any more) between slices of cake, and here’s what came:
NOTHING IS TRUE FOREVER OR FOR EVERYONE.
I have spent a great deal of time lately discussing with a dear one whether or not there is ever “a point” and I have failed – in a fairly spectacular way – to clarify my (not the) point that what I mean – what I contend – what I postulate is that what we can see, what we can grasp, what we can understand and know is never “finished.” The story changes with the teller, and the teller of the tale changes with every breath s/he takes and where s/he is standing when looking at the story. I hate to devolve into pop-culture references (no, actually I don’t) but, look at Gregory Maguire’s re-imagining of the world of Frank L. Baum’s “The Wizard of Oz” – not to mention MGM’s take on it. Sometimes, when you know the Wicked Witch’s back story, she is maybe not so wicked after all. Maybe, to some people, in some ways, in some versions of the story, she’s the hero, having done what she did “For Good”?
Yeah. That. I say this with some authority, having, as I do, both a small cadre of people who see me as Idina Menzel’s Elphaba in the “Wicked” version of the Oz tales and a somewhat larger contingent of people who swear up and down (sometimes even, in court) that I am the fireball throwing, scarecrow destroying, Glinda and Dorothy hating, Margaret Hamilton Wicked Witch version. Which has taught me (not easily and not without some frequent episodes – ongoing, I might add – of melting) that, see, the thing is, truth is a frangible thing. It’s delicate. And it comes into being for many, many reasons, very few of which actually have to do with eternal, immutable, ever-after certainty. Things change. Which is the point – right? That point being that there is no point as in “ever after” point. There are only points on a path, and one does best to follow those dots without becoming too attached. One is better off, I think, I believe, I have learned, to accept that what is – right now – is, just for right now – and will very likely not be so ten seconds from now.
That’s a gift. And a terrifying way to live. And so, when I say, “there really is no point,” I find that some people worry for me, they think me sad, or without foundation, with nothing in which to believe. But I believe in everything, my dears (or, should I say, “my pretties”), and some days that means I throw fireballs from my rooftop and deploy the Flying Monkeys, while other days, I sing pretty ballads and defy gravity and love everyone, even to the point of my own destruction. Yep. I’m melting.
Speaking of which, I’ve got more birthday celebrating to do, and that cake isn’t going to eat itself. Thanks for reading. I hope you’ve followed me and liked my Facebook page.
But, that’s not the case; I am simply exhausted from always entertaining the possibilities of the infinite EVERYTHING in which to believe – even if the belief lasts only a moment.