Ain't easy being green

Tim has written another piece for the Guardian online. Ch-ch-ch-check it out.

Forever young

This year I managed to spin out my birthday into a three-day celebration of m-e. I had my actual birthday off work, so we went to the SFMoMA to see the Mastisse sculpture exhibit, which was interesting if a little earthbound—he managed to make the most lithe and lovely women bulky and solid as tree trunks. I guess that was his aesthetic because he was one of those geniuses who could do whatever he pleased with his materials and if he chose to create lumpy sculptures that looked like fists then, okay, I’ll pay to look at that. I got the 4th of July off work (Go Team America!) so that turned into a Napa Valley winery picnic day. We sat under oak trees and baked while sipping a lovely white, which immediately gave me a headache, and eating deli salads with bread and cheese. We moved with the sun and marinated in our own juices. It could have been a Matisse painting, that’s how elegantly sloppy it was. Later we went up on our roof and watched the Marina fireworks show. Much of it was obscured by other apartment buildings, so we mostly got flashes of red, white and blue light with the occasional dandelion burst of loveliness. And the final birthday treat was dinner at a fancy pants restaurant a couple blocks down the road where we ate our first expensive, fine cuisine probably since we left NZ. It was nice to blow the budget and blow out the candle in my chocolate cake with ganache.
And so another year passes under the door, never to be seen again. I have been in my 30s for a wee while now, but it still takes me by surprise—not that time is passing but that it has left me virtually unchanged which doesn't seem quite fair. When do I get to be wise and unhurried? If my three-year-old self and my 15-year-old self and my current self sat down together they would laugh their asses off. They would share the same sense of humor, the same taste in clothing and books, the same love of shiny objects, the same passion for Mexican food and the beach and puppies, the same disdain for anything fussy or overblown, and the same self-defeating behavior—quietly watching other people take credit for their efforts, keeping thoughts private which should be shared, and flaring into anger quickly and without warning only to fizzle ineffectually 10 minutes later. The linear progression favored by the wildly, covetously successful hasn’t exactly happened. I mean, there’s a ton of good stuff in my life that I can feel happy about, and I do. At the same time, there is a noticeable lack of drive, career cultivation and other hallmarks of true adulthood. It’s embarrassing. I still like dollhouses, I eat peanut butter out of the jar, and I lavish affection on a pair of hamsters who would happily kill each other. (I met a 10-year-old fellow dwarf hamster caretaker last week who told me he didn’t know any other adults with hammies. This kid ate slabs of quivery raw fish without blinking and still thought I was a bit off.) I am scared of hairdressers. I check out well-dressed women on the bus and try to figure out how they did it. I chew my fingernails then hate myself for it. I actually care what happens to poor, brainwashed Katie Holmes.
I was talking to a friend about this the other week. Blessedly, I am not alone. She was faux despairing because she had just bought a pair of red, diamante-d heels which she wore around the house with trackies because…well, she lives alone and why the heck not? Seems we 70s kids ended up without some essential adult chip in our brains. Is it because we watched Three’s Company and ate too much red-dyed food? Or are we supposed to serve as an antidote to all these whippersnappers pouring out of high schools now with web-based businesses, a dozen cool and useful talents (such as decoupage and jujitsu and chocolate-making), and a gentle disdain for their 30-something aunts and uncles and parents’ friends? I'd like to think there's some useful reason for my bubblegum habit and plastic jewels.