I’d intended for this post to be funny. The image at the top of the page, as I’d envisioned it, was going to be of the happy, young me looking at his older, grayer, more beaten-down self and reacting in horror with something like a, “Jesus Christ, you can’t be serious.”
You would have liked it.
As I was working on it, though, I had change of heart… It just didn’t feel right. The truth is, I think the younger me would be both surprised and impressed to discover that I’d not only survived into adulthood, and had a family, but continued, despite the occasional setback, to keep making things. [The younger me, I can tell you for a fact, didn’t think we’d make it very far.] Sure, the grizzled beard and sunken, blood-filled eyes would probably terrify the younger me, but, once the initial shock wore off, I’d like to think that the younger version of me would appreciate how the older me had played the cards we’d been dealt. And I like that idea. I like the possibility that the younger version of myself, if he were thrust into modern times, might give me a little nod in approval, after poking around my house for a bit, meeting Linette and the kids, and asking a few probing questions.
And, yeah, today’s my birthday. It was 48 years ago today that I was pulled from inside of my unconscious mother with forceps, beginning this long, mostly uncomfortable trip through life.
[While I know it’s unlikely that I’ll ever have the chance to have the younger version of myself travel forward in time to validate the decisions I’ve made post puberty, it just occurred to me that might work just as well to find a random pale, fat kid in a windbreaker somewhere, tell him that I’m actually him in grown-up form, and then lay out my entire life, asking whether or not he approves of how I’ve done. Of course, it could totally depress a kid to tell him that he ends up as a blogger in Ypsilanti, but it’s a risk I think I’m willing to take.]