Wednesday, June 14, 2017
Had a funny email conversation the other day with an old friend who confided that a wild child still lurked within. My response was, wild child? I have an old man growing thick hair in his earlobes and with bad hips lurking just inside. He jumps out on occasion and just freaks me out.
Arthritic knees and elbows, skin tags, omb, having to fart when I stand at the public urinal, that's the stuff that makes me go running for the exits.
Almost sixty and in some ways still an emotional infant. Classic case of arrested development. But pretty much lived the life I chose to live, on my own terms, cherished but certainly not going to last forever.
I never did the kid thing, the cul de sac, never much cared for normal. Had a guy helping me on the farm the other day, maybe forty, he told me he had five kids and he asked me how many niños I had? Zero, I said. And he was flabbergasted. "Who will get all this?"
And it's a good question. A collector accumulates a lot of stuff in his and her life. Exponential for two pack rats. But is that a good enough reason to have kids, if you are not so inclined? So you can have somebody to give your shit to? Not quite good enough reason to reproduce, but what the hell do I know?