I've had back problems for the past month. It's not a major incapacitation. I can still mostly move freely, without hindrance from my vertebral column or the muscles associated with it. But, it's still noticable enough that I can't help but think to myself, "Man, it wasn't always this way." Sometimes, nostalgia wraps me up in a blanket and even dares to remind me that, many years ago, there was no pain at all.
I know I harp on these subjects more now since my birthday is approaching. I'll turn twenty-seven soon. Over the past few birthdays, I've tried to take stock of my body's condition relative to other folks near my age. I make subtle inquiries on the state of their bodies and minds. Do they have pain? Do they have trouble sleeping sometimes? Have they started to notice a grim, resigned "adult" attitude about it all?
Of course, I haven't hit the hard parts of aging yet. My boyfriend, who's eight days shy of being exactly four years older than me, likes to think that he's hit the hard parts of aging. But, he hasn't, either. We're both just noticing that things-aren't-as-easy-as-they-once-were. Again, these aren't big changes. Just small, subtle alterations in the execution of everyday acts. Cleaning the bathtub has a little extra discomfort. So does loading the dishwasher, or chasing my cat around to give her medication. Even sex is a little, just a little, different.
I harp on these small differences since I always fixate on the small things. With glee, I drink up the small moments, and weave a tapestry from them. It's not the most efficient way to move through life, but I find it a wonderful way to pass my time on this good Earth. So, since I carve my life out by the small things, I'm of course fixating, with the approach of my birthday, on the fact that my back's been stiff, my knees crack, and my wrists ache. But just a little.
A lot of citizens of this city would likely argue that Seattle's transition from summer (season 1) to winter (season 2), is pretty dramatic. The days shorten dramatically, the clouds arrive with no warning, the temperature drops dramatically, and the rains arrive with an abruptness that leaves natives looking nervously over their shoulders for a giant ark. At least, that's how many of the Seattlites I encounter phrase it. I see this transition as something more subtle - a tip-toe dance away from summer, through a transition, and into winter. I'd almost dare to call it autumn, if Seattlites weren't adamantly opposed to the idea of autumn in Seattle. I've been humbled and lectured on this subject time and again: Seattle has two seasons.
But really, it doesn't.
The days do indeed shorten dramatically. But, the other steps are small, and barely perceptible until they accumulate. A cloud one day. Then two. Some foggy mornings with the sun piercing the afternoon sky. Cool, morning drizzle followed by warm, breezy afternoons. I don't care if saying so does go against a basic tenet of living-in-Seattle, and I don't care if this seasonal transition really is a recent by-product of climate change: Seattle has an autumn. It's shorter and wetter than any autumn I experienced back in Illinois. But it's still an autumn: a little fog, a rainy day, a cold breeze, a little back pain.
Just a little.
Yesterday would've been a good midwestern autumn day, had the air not been moist. It was cloudy, cool, breezy, and unfortunately only a tad crisp (the previous night's drizzle soaked up too much dry air). Still: "Close enough," I said. "Let's go to the zoo."
In sweaters and knit caps, we walked up empty paths. Very few Seattlites braved the almost-but-not-quite-winter weather (Dare I say autumn?), though the other animals were out and active. The tiger cub played, the siamangs hooted, and the orangutans ate like there's no tomorrow. We did, of course, had to go visit our Favorites. For me: the siamangs and the slow lorises. For Zach, the brown bears.
To get to the bears, we had to walk up a long, empty path to the northern stretches of the zoo. As we walked, we'd been talking about our approaching birthdays. I don't remember who made the downtrodden quip: "I'm getting old." But, I do remember my defiant afterthought:
"Zach, race me."
"Huh?"
"I'll race you up to the bears! C'mon!"
We ran, laughing all the way. Zach with his hands in his pockets (he had no gloves), and me squealing in flip-flops (I never did know how to clothe my feet in cold weather).
It was the greatest minute of the day.
Posted by James at September 30, 2007 09:50 AM