I’m sick of being an adult.
Since I got back from the US, two weeks ago, I’ve attended an economics conference, given two talks - also on economics, attended board meetings, rendered sage corporate advice, finalised a theater grants program, and prepared my tax returns.
Confession - the last part is not true. Or only partially. I began preparing my tax returns, then took a break for the weekend. By Friday, I was exhausted with being an adult, and texted my wife and son - “That’s it! I’m done with having things to do. I’m going to spend the day lounging around and listening to music.”
Accordingly, I spent yesterday wallowing in a soup of self-pity and self-indulgence, and figured, it must be the taxes that did me in. More than paying taxes, I abhor the paper-work that goes into submitting my returns. But, even when that’s done - and I process numbers with ease - the reality is, I’ll still be stuck with my adult world.
A world of purpose, of significant meetings, major decisions, serious reading, and considered, well-informed dialogue.
Why So Serious? The Joker* asked.
Because we’re raised that way. To study hard, get good grades, do meaningful extra-curricular work, to craft a powerful CV, to get into a good college, to study hard, to get good grades, to get into a good company, to do meaningful work, da-da-da-da.
Yeah, I get that. And I did that - or some of that, to the tune of my own fiddler. Who is, as you might have gathered if you’ve read much of Gimme Mo, quite whimsical. But it’s done - major responsibilities discharged, retirement money in the bank. Adult tasks done.
Then - Why So Serious?
Habit, bad habit, and the tyranny of the calendar, which tells me what to do. Not that I can shirk responsibility for the calendar, as I’m the one that tells it what to tell me to do, and when.
There’s this wonderful film I saw decades ago, called Follow Me*, in which a detective, played by the delightful Topol, is recruited by a businessman to follow his wife, whom he suspects of having an affair. But she isn’t; she just wanders off by herself, to fight the tedium of marriage to a stuffy husband. The wife, played by the gamine Mia Farrow, quickly cottons on to Topol, and they play cat-and-mouse through the attractions of London. Eventually, and reluctantly, Topol ends the game, and tells his employer that his best chance to save his marriage is to follow his wife, to allow himself to be seduced by her spontaneity - to allow her to lead him into the romance of life.
Even if it sounds somewhat onanistic, I think there’s a metaphor here: if you want to exit a life dictated by listicles, then you need to submit to the romance of your own whimsy. Romance is not all roses and soothing violins - my fiddler has been known to serve up some pretty grating passages. At the core of romance is uncertainty, the thrill of the unknown, of sharp dives into valleys of disappointment.
One of the very adult ways in which we cushion ourselves from disappointment is by “discovering our core competencies” early in life, and then pedalling hard at them, till we’re ready - or forced - to hang up our shoes. It’s a great recipe for a lifetime of self-esteem, and perhaps a bank of life-time earnings. But in protecting that shell of self-worth, and confining ourselves to our zone of comfort ( I love these cliched phrases), we stop romancing ourselves.
In romance lies risk, a dazzling menu of unfamiliar, and perhaps dangerous, dishes.
In routine lies the comfort of the familiar, the tepid soup called “No Options”.
There is no such soup. Every day is full of options. I could have spent today playing theater games at an arts center in South Extension. I almost enrolled, then wondered if that was a little weird - a guy knocking on seventy, playing theater games with college kids. But that was the crab in me talking, not the young people I would have met. Most people are gracious, they welcome the unusual, as long as it is not threatening.
Most threats are those we imagine for ourselves. But the threat of too much adulting is suddenly real for me, so before I descend into dotage, excuse me while I indulge my inner adolescent once again.
The Joker
Follow Me (or The Public Eye), 1972
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Follow_Me%21_%28film%29
"At the core of romance is uncertainty, the thrill of the unknown, of sharp dives into valleys of disappointment. "
Thanks for this reiteration. I go too far following one's romance and the defeats and disappointments can make one feel mad and idiotic. A reminder that this is part of the game helps.
On the lines of “follow me”, there was a French movie from the eighties called “the appointment”. But with a different outcome