It’s time, once again, for another edition of Ain’t That Some Shit– a monthly compilation of everything that is blowing our minds lately. What IS the je ne sais quoi feeling of, “Ain’t That Some Shit?!” Is it a good thing? Is it a bad thing? Is it both? Who knows? It is a Coralie original, that quickly entered into Leigh’s vocabulary. Let’s fire away at May!
I have just a short list of shit this month. To kick it off- It is MAY! Ain’t that some shit! Did everybody remember to wish Leigh a happy birthday? Leigh’s birthday always reminds me of the end of school. And seems like every year I am reminded that her birthday is “May the Fourth” (be with you). From someone who has only seen Space Balls- I am not exactly in tune with all that Star Track or Trek stuff- ain’t that some shit!?! Regardless, I am very glad that not only was Leigh born but also that she made it another loop around the sun! Life would not be nearly as full without you in it. Love you, Boo Thang.
I am starting a book club! Ain’t that some shit! I was laying in bed last night reading articles on Pocket when I came across “12 Books that will Transform who you are, what you do and how you do it.” Who can’t use some of that in their life? Learning and growing, stretching yourself- I mean, ain’t that some shit?!?? The article only outlined the first 6. And I thought, I should read these and I should get some people to read them with me. If these six work out, maybe we will read the next 6. No, I have never been in a book club much less organized one. However, if you would care to join us- I would love to have you. Let me know, and I will add you to the Facebook group.
I told you, it was a short list of shit this month. Been busy. Between the merch shop and newsletter, Fun Things is just growing up. Is this the chapter of the blog that we can compare to our 20s? Ain’t that some shit?!? Lord, help us!
I’ve been accused of being too thoughtful several times– and not in a complimentary connotation, either. Sometimes, I’m too full of thoughts, and that’s fair. Case in point: there is a couple our age who lives on our hall with their two young kids. They don’t live next door or anything, just down the hall. They are one of those couples where if you had met in college, you would have been best friends immediately. But with the onset of adulthood (and they have young kids) time has never permitted us to become friends. We exchange hilarious pleasantries whenever we see each other, confirming our similar points of view, wave coming out of the garage, etc. This past weekend, Josh and I went to get brunch at our favorite local diner where our M.O. is to sit at the bar (since there are just two of us, and it circumvents the line for a table). It just so happened that the couple was there with their two young boys waiting for a table. The boys (both under 5) were crawling all over the available seats at the counter and since we KNEW the couple, I politely asked if we could have the seats at the bar, since their table was almost ready. The older child immediately got off the chairs, but the younger child didn’t move. Since I like talking to kids, I jokingly asked him, “Hey, do you mind if I sit there?” The kid didn’t budge, which was fine. The dad then bodily lifted the kid in an arm-socket wrenching manner. I said, “We’re in no rush. No need to be officious.” And he replied, “I’m not vicious, this one just doesn’t respond to verbal cues.” Fair enough. A lot of people (like Josh) don’t. Their table was ready shortly after so they shuffled off to the other side of the restaurant. I was bothered by the fact that this couple (who would be fast-friends in any other context– except adulthood) thought I called their treatment of their children, “vicious”. Which I didn’t. I stewed on it for two days, worried I had caused insult. So much so, that upon seeing them again, I quickly apologized and explained that I said “officious” instead of “vicious”. Yeah. They totally didn’t even remember the specific exchange. Why would they? They have two young children. In fact, they were confused, and now probably think I’m weird– which, I guess I am. Is the lesson to: let it go, forget about it, move on, and not say anything? Me thinks, there is probably a balance, but ain’t that some shit?! It reminded me of one of my favorite quotes (by, Eleanor Roosevelt) of which I clearly needed reminding: “You wouldn’t worry so much about what others think of you if you realized how seldom they do.” Sick burn, E. Rizzy.
I recently celebrated my 37th birthday… which was awesome, because I thought I already WAS 37. When I was younger, I always had a hard time believing when older people couldn’t remember their age. I couldn’t imagine a scenario where I wouldn’t know how old I was. And then I didn’t. Ain’t that some shit?!
My 19th Summer found Coralie and I working at an exclusive summer camp in Maine. On the drive up, I (jokingly) bought a vintage t-shirt at a thrift store that said, “Over Forty and Feeling Sporty.” There are a pair of glasses over the word, “sporty” and the font was made of glitter so I (of course) had to own it. I wanted to will myself to be older than I was and wore it all summer. I wore that t-shirt for years thinking myself quite clever because of the obvious juxtaposition between my age and 40. Clearly I (in bold, even!) don’t look 40. Because getting old and feeling sporty is funny. Right?! Nah, bra; not really. Getting older and feeling sporty can be funny at times, but in truth shouldn’t we make “feeling sporty” our constant watchword as we get older? Several years ago, I stopped wearing the t-shirt because I wasn’t so unbelievably far away from 40. I thought I would be aging myself, inviting the comparison. The shirt has since gotten shuffled to the back of the t-shirt pile, and then finally crammed in my jersey-fabric, sewing stash. But lately, I’ve been thinking how the number means really means nothing. Everyone’s 40 is different. I should break that t-shirt out again in three years and rock it, but for real time.
A podcast I recently listened to and recommended (S-Town) talks a lot of time, as a subject; the science of horology (the study of time), clocks, and time-measuring devices. Sundials are a major through-line in the story, with a particular discussion about the tradition of inscribing/casting frank (sometimes darker) quotes about the nature of time on them (same with tombstones). Since then, I’ve noticed them everywhere. I.E. “Tedious and brief.” I like the acknowledgment of the elephant in the room.
I like facing the truth. I like the feeling of universality. I, too, am like those who have come before me. Me and my meat suit.
Clearly, birthdays make me think about life and death. But so does the act of living and connecting with people. How can it not? The two are so beautifully intrinsic, and certainly omnipresent the older you get. Time marches on, no matter and death and sorrow are the toll we all pay for the beautiful bits, full of love. It is universal and eternal. Birthdays are a privilege denied to many. And I am much thankful for mine. I’m glad I’m exactly where I am right now. You couldn’t pay me to go back to being 19 again. I’m exactly where am I supposed to be. I’m proud of what life has taught me, so far. I’m smarter and cooler than I’ve ever been at– any moment. As a person, I am more refined and further cultivated. I know things! “They” say that statistically, 75 years after you die, no one will remember you. How mindblowingly humbling is that?! Is it best to not think of it? Or should you pro-actively think about it? Which is why this well-timed article about an exhibit from Czech photographer Jan Langer came through my purview recently it hit me right in the feelz. Langer asked a group of centenarians to recreate younger pictures of themselves for comparison. The results are beautiful and thought-provoking. To see a life on someone’s face; to imagine all the people who came before us– who led full, complete lives full of milestones with the same universal problems, emotions, and experiences that I have. Aye yi yi. ¿No es una mierda?
Speaking of life milestones, lets close out on an upper(?) with a little levity with this article/video about a self-identifying, teenage-goth who showed up to her prom in a coffin that was pulled from a hearse. C’est pas une merde?! Now THAT should go on a t-shirt!
Uggh. Deep thoughts. I know. Apologies. Birthdays, amirite? Please take this not as a cry for help, but a rumination on being. How bout that? Is that not some shite, indeed?
What do you think? Can you be too thoughtful? Are you interested in a book club? Do birthdays give YOU the squidgys? Would YOU buy a ‘C’est Pas Une Merde?!’ t-shirt? As always, we want to know!!
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