It’s your civil duty as a contributing member of society and the tight confines of Man Repeller’s Cosmo to judge me for having referenced myself in third person for the sake of this post’s title, so, go ahead.
Are you done?
Fine. One last jab, make it good.
Okay? Great. I’m glad we did that.
Moving on: when Ari asked me if I would participate in a program that he was putting together with Coach, I knew that meant the incorporation of the phenomenally rambunctious ladies he has gracefully painted gold over and over again on his site, Advanced Style. I wasn’t sure how we’d interact, but knowing that we would at all seemed enough to deliver an affirmative, “duh, what do you need from me? When? Can we do it right now?”
What resulted is the video featured right above, chronicling not only my first few weeks as a member of the short-hair-renegade (made devastatingly obvious by my disability to control it–why and how would any human with even half a heart and a camera allow the left side of my face to boast flocculent stir fry, damnit?), but also the suspension of my fear of growing old, care of my boisterous companion, Lynn Dell.
It sounds outrageous, right, that I’d be afraid to get old? Well, ever since I first read Joan Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem, where she astutely points out, “It is often said that New York is a city for only the very rich and the very poor. It is less often said that New York is also…a city for only the very young,” I felt like I’d probably have no choice but to wrangle a way to cheat the biological system. If Brad Pitt could grow down, why couldn’t I, right?
Wrong. That’s Hollywood, and in real life I have come to realize that it’s somewhat tragic I’ve been able maintain such a violent fear of getting older–if we don’t grow old, it means we’ve died, doesn’t it? And if we’ve died, we haven’t had the chance to reflect on memory’s past, remembering all old times as good times, patting ourselves on the back as we continue loosening our belt notches to make more comfortable our stomachs, which are bursting with flagrant experiences.
If this opportunity taught me anything, it is simply that you haven’t lived until you’ve been able to call yourself an octogenarian so proud, so colorful, so full of life, everyone else has got wonder what youth really means.