Meh (Or, Insert Clever Title Here)

In one of my favorite songs, Stevie Nicks declares, "Time makes you bolder/Even children get older/I'm getting older too". I've always loved those lines. It's only recently, though, that I've come to terms with the fact that the first four words of that verse are, in my case, just not true. I've always been under the impression -- and heard from a lot of aging folks -- that with age, comes wisdom. With the years, comes fearlessness. With growing older, comes some shred of authenticity. As I sit here tonight, admittedly not an Oldie Olsen with a walker and colostomy bag, but still old enough to not be called "young", I'm all sorts of pissed. Why, oh why, would Stevie lie to me? I'm more scared and cowardly now than I was at 18. Now I just have male pattern baldness and crow's feet on top of it.

Before I go any further, I want you to know that I'm aware of something important as I write this post. My fear when starting this blog was that I would eventually use it as a place to process all my "baggage": a sort of free association therapy with the world. I did not want that then, and I do not want that now. I have no intention of spewing up the dramas and messes of my life. My only aim in this post is to get some feelings out, since I feel I'm clogged with way too many right now to even see clearly. It's tremendously beneficial for me to write of my internal struggles because, as the great Joan Didion once said, "I don't think unless I'm writing." If I can touch upon some essence of my truth, and maybe yours too, then maybe this cautious soul-baring will not be in vain. I simply write what I know at this time, in the hope that maybe someone, somewhere can identify. Isn't that, when it's all said and done, the purpose of writing in the first place? To feel less alone?

The winter months have always been rough for me, and this year has been a doozy. I feel the lack of light not just in the waning days, but in the furthest reaches of my soul. Years ago, I was told I had Seasonal Affective Disorder (otherwise known by its more-than-appropriate acronym: SAD). I invested in one of those light boxes, but the damn thing is so artificial and bright that I get nauseous and have to wear my shades in front of it. I look like a gay Jack Nicholson sprawled out in my chair under the harsh lights, sunglasses intact and brutal fluorescent high-beams reverberating off my bald head; and thus blinding anyone in a six-block radius. I feel your pain, Jack.

Now I'm the first to admit that when things get rough, I make bad decisions. When I felt this disorientation setting in, way back in November, I immediately started smoking again. I tend to lose touch with all normalcy and order in the parameters of my life. Things like paying bills, cleaning the house, and even staying awake throughout the day are next to impossible for me. If I tally up all the hours I've slept this winter, you might as well just slap a green hat and tie on me and give me a sidekick named Boo Boo. Even the hours I've been awake -- or, more appropriately, have had my eyes open -- I've walked around in a perpetual fog.

Yes, I've seen doctors about this. A lot of them. I've tried everything from testosterone patches to gluten-free diets to medication changes to vitamin supplements. Nothing seems terribly effective. Last week, I even had to go to the emergency room because of some horrible, incapacitating chest pains that spread to the entire upper left side of my body, gripping me in a vise-like agony for days. Luckily, my ticker is fine: apparently, I have the heart and lungs of an athlete. Told to a smoker, this news is worthy of a Happy Dance.

The E.R.'s diagnosis? Stress.

I didn't look at my job as particularly stressful before this. I mean, I spend eight hours a day waiting for the phone to ring, reading Wikipedia, and trying to stay conscious. But in proper perspective, I can trace this to be the root of my troubles. Searching Wikipedia, attempting to keep my eyes open, hoping against hope that someone will call and order a book, is not my idea of a job. Yeah, I might be getting paid to look up useless trivia (Did you know that Tang Dynasty chancellor Cui Shi was believed to have risen to power through affairs with Shanggun Wan'er and Princess Taiping?), but this is not how I want to spend my life. There's no work to be done, we are over-staffed, under-managed, under-supplied, and in the middle of a battle of egos that is oftentimes laughable in its outrageousness.

This is never what I wanted. Instead of growing closer to who I want to be with the advancing years, I step further and further from it. Cowardice is abundant, but so is that dreaded human necessity of money. I've chosen to live in the most expensive city in America, and as a result I must settle for this unchallenging mind-paralysis. If I had my way, I'd leave tomorrow, move to the country, and write for a living, but these things are all so much easier said (dreamed) than done. I'm stuck, and I can see no way out. Saving up money to move is impossible; saving up money for any reason at all when you live in this city is impossible. Switching to yet another soulless, brainless job is daunting and unappealing. I wish I could just muster up a little bit of courage to do something, but all I really want to do is sleep.

A week from Wednesday, John and I leave for Bali for three weeks. This will no doubt be an exciting adventure, and one that I hope provides me with the time and space to just get a friggin' grip and decide where I'm headed. Hell, maybe I'll stay in Bali. That might be just the ticket. If you don't hear from me in a month or so, you can safely assume that I've become a rice farmer, toiling the days away in my lush green paddies, marveling at how close I've come to my ultimate goal of blissful, welcome obscurity.

If you'll excuse me, I must go get fitted for my conical bamboo hat. After all, if there's one thing I learned from my light box, it's that bald heads need extra protection.