Music for the Middle Aged

PBKD5675Sitting on the train on my way to work, “Pictures of You” by The Cure started playing. I had my iTunes on shuffle on my phone. The song instantly evoked memories of teenage me alone in a stuffy bedroom, surrounded by stacks of books and CDs. Even though The Cure was one of the most important bands of my late teens/early twenties, it had probably been years since I’ve last listened to them. Now, hearing them for the first time in my 40s, I was dismayed that the lyrics no longer resonated the way they once had.

I think most songs are written for a teenage audience. But by the time first love becomes the sixth or seventh love, all those hormonal highs that left teen me weeping trails of eyeliner across my cheeks have leveled out into the flat expanse of nostalgia. Despite the latency that has prevented me, thus far, from going full blown suit and tie, I wonder, is it time to cave in, surrender to fate, and finally break down and buy some Neil Young albums?

The highlight of my morning was scoring a seat on the train. Usually at the beginning of the week, the trains at rush hour are already so crowded when I board that I have to stand, hanging onto a filthy, gray strap, crushed between gorillas in Cubs jerseys. This morning there was a seat available, and I made a beeline to it, narrowly beating out a bony woman in scrubs who surely deserved it more than I did. I sat anyway, with not the slightest remorse because sitting > standing.

In front of me, a tall, handsome man stood, oblivious to my existence. I looked down at his large feet to avoid staring directly into his crotch, and immediately began to wonder how large his penis was. I think how ridiculous it is that I’m 40 now and still think about these things, and wonder how long it will be until my mind will finally move on to other things, like politics, or poetry, or bird watching. Or will I be, as I suspect, a frail 90 year old, sitting on a train, wondering what handsome strangers look like naked? Is he hairy or smooth, hung or not, cut or uncut? What music does he listen to? What things make him laugh? Do touching Youtube videos make him cry? Has he ever lost someone that he loved?

I’ve recently become even more ridiculous than usual. More pathetic in my desperate attempts for validation. I find myself posting pictures to Instagram of me, throwback Thursday pics of me when I still had hair, and recent pics of me in sleeveless shirts with biceps bulging so that strangers on the internet will see, and will ‘like’ this image. Every like is a heart. And every heart tells me that I’m still someone that someone else desires. That I may be 40, but I’ve still got it. Whatever it is.

I smile at men in gyms, and I maintain profiles on apps like Scruff (the hairier, bear-ier version of Grindr). Not because I want to meet men, or hook-up, because I don’t and I won’t. In nearly 7 years, C is the only person that I’ve slept with. I do it because I still need other people to tell me that I have value. And value, in my mind, comes from knowing that someone, somewhere, still wants to have sex with me. Not C, of course, because he loves me, so he doesn’t count.

Maybe music made for teenagers is exactly what I should be listening to. My nights have become sleepless again, and my days have been grayed out with uncertainty. Everything in our lives is up in the air right now. I may be getting a promotion, but it isn’t definite. My company may let me work from home in New Orleans, but haven’t given me the final answer. C may look for another job. We may be able to find an apartment we can afford with just the salary that I may or may not have. The only thing that is certain about my future is that at the end of August, our lease will be up, and we can’t stay here.

When faced with anxiety, my go-to response has always been to flee. This almost certainly explains the number of jobs I’ve irresponsibly quit, and the number of states I’ve lived in over the past decade. Even now, a bigger part of me than I’d ever admit to C, fantasizes constantly about loading my car up with my clothes and my books, and just driving away. The destination doesn’t matter as long as it’s not here. The desire to flee, I know, I understand, it’s imbedded into the pattern of my pulsing neurons. But lately there’s a new desire that manifests more often. One that leaves me bewildered, that fuels my uncertainty. The wholly unfamiliar desire to stay put. To renew a lease. To put a ring on C’s finger. To buy a house somewhere in a suburb, with a yard and a fence. Then, suddenly, I want to flee even more.

Instead I sit on the train in a pair of slacks, and nice (for me) shoes. I stare at the feet of the man in front of me, and wish that there was some new soundtrack to my life. Music for the middle aged. Songs about a stalled career, an aging relationship, impotent desire, where nothing is ever high or low, it’s all just the same flat monotone.

Then the train stops at Grand and State where I get off. I squeeze past young men in messenger bags, and when strangers smile at me I smile at back, then look immediately away. I walk past dirty blue tiled floors, and up sticky stairs. Pictures of the me I used to be fade into memory, and pictures of me now come into crisp focus. Posted on apps and social media to be dissected by strangers. A bearded jaw. Receding hairline. A pair of glasses, each prescription with thicker lenses than the one before. When the day comes, sooner than later, when my words and my images elicit no response from my indifferent audience, will I then be forced to finally grow up? Will I finally have found out how to love myself by then? Will I finally listen to music for grown ups?

As I walk up the stairs onto the bustling sidewalks downtown, Pictures of You fades, and the next song in my queue is a song by Taylor Swift. I do not take this as a sign from the universe. But I don’t skip to the next song either.

 

 

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