WAITING FOR THE MOMENT OF ZEN
I have four months to live.
That’s what it feels like, anyway, with a baby due on this date in May. Four months until my life as I’ve known it for, well, a lifetime, is over. And unlike your rudimentary terminal illness, this scenario doesn’t allow for a full-throttle binge of excess as I go out in a blaze of glory. No, I have to save my pennies, because it turns out the afterlife awaiting me has a higher cost of living. In this case, you CAN take it with you, and you’re gonna need it.
I must say I have been feeling a thrill at the thought of giving this life an overhaul. I’m looking forward to having a new source of love and joy and excitement and the sort of family adventures I used to laugh about as a child. And lately I’ve been thinking that it will be good to care about something important for a change. Comedy is as fun a job as any, but I am eager to leave behind the self-absorption it provokes, or the neo-adolescent obsession with winning the approval of people you don’t even know. All that will be beneath me when I have a baby to care for.
At least, that’s what I’ve been assuming. But it hasn’t happened yet. In fact, lately I’ve found myself nervously wringing my hands while I look at recent bookings that have fallen through, wait on job prospects in limbo, ponder jokes that fell flat over the weekend, and try to forget the faces of those audience members that just didn’t like me. And as I notice my hand-wringing I can’t help wondering when my life-changing epiphany is going to take hold. I was really excited about the prospect of simply not caring about the petty, silly minutiae of my insecurities. “So what if the lumberjack from Prince George didn’t appreciate the subtleties of my “Sometimes Y” joke? I have a family that loves me, and that’s all that matters…” is what I would say, letting all such minor concerns fall by the wayside. That was the plan.
But here I am, approaching the biggest turning point of my life, and I’m still caught up in stupid worries about why that comeback jammed in my brain before I could deliver it, or what I’m doing differently that’s killing the goalie bit. And those are just the comedy worries. Never mind the day-to-day neurotic fretting over that lady that criticized my bad French at the post office, or the bus driver that wouldn’t let me carry my dog onboard. Surely these instances of life’s little hiccups should be paling in significance by now?
Maybe not. Maybe my post-baby self will be all too similar to my pre-baby self. Which is some cause for concern. ‘Cause I fully expected to worry about diapers, doctor’s appointments, late-night feedings and baby-proofed sockets. But I wasn’t expecting to worry about those issues AND still hold onto the mundane crap that I’ve been stressing over since I was six years old. I assumed my personal demons would move out of my head to make room for the new tenants. Now I realize they’re sticking around, knocking out some walls and adding an extension.
It’s a little disappointing, the thought that the new cool, deep, wisdom-infused David will not come into being with the snip of an umbilical cord. No, there are flaws a-plenty that will be sticking around. Possibly dormant, or at least sleep-deprived, for a couple of months, but ready to pick up where they left off as life reverts to a comfortable routine.
The upside is that while insecure David is sticking around, that also means immature David is sticking around. The frankly spectacular part of me that can describe every X-Men cover from 1975 to 1987, can recite the lyrics of the Buffy musical episode and who hears the sound of Star Wars Tie Fighters when he navigates a crowded sidewalk. Entering a new level of adulthood doesn’t mean throwing out the trappings of the old one. Again, you CAN take it with you. You can graduate college AND keep your sea monkeys and mini-fridge. So it’s not all doom and gloom.
I’m still looking forward to the growth that fatherhood will bring. But with growth comes extra weight that I’m going to have to carry. So I’m going to exercise. In this remaining “me” time I’m going to work out my angst-ridden self and just maybe rid myself of some angst. Contrary to popular wisdom, I will “sweat the small stuff”, or at least the selfish stuff, and maybe even get some of it out of my system. Like a champion body builder, I will pump existential iron until my self-esteem throbs and my superego aches. I will shed the calories of worry and the blubber of regret. I will feel the burn as I crunch every kernel of confidence, tone every sinew of self-validation and jog every memory of triumph and achievement. So when the time comes to add on more weight I’ll be ready. Heck, I’ll be in the best shape of my life.
Which ends in four months. Crap. I need to lie down.
I have four months to live.
That’s what it feels like, anyway, with a baby due on this date in May. Four months until my life as I’ve known it for, well, a lifetime, is over. And unlike your rudimentary terminal illness, this scenario doesn’t allow for a full-throttle binge of excess as I go out in a blaze of glory. No, I have to save my pennies, because it turns out the afterlife awaiting me has a higher cost of living. In this case, you CAN take it with you, and you’re gonna need it.
I must say I have been feeling a thrill at the thought of giving this life an overhaul. I’m looking forward to having a new source of love and joy and excitement and the sort of family adventures I used to laugh about as a child. And lately I’ve been thinking that it will be good to care about something important for a change. Comedy is as fun a job as any, but I am eager to leave behind the self-absorption it provokes, or the neo-adolescent obsession with winning the approval of people you don’t even know. All that will be beneath me when I have a baby to care for.
At least, that’s what I’ve been assuming. But it hasn’t happened yet. In fact, lately I’ve found myself nervously wringing my hands while I look at recent bookings that have fallen through, wait on job prospects in limbo, ponder jokes that fell flat over the weekend, and try to forget the faces of those audience members that just didn’t like me. And as I notice my hand-wringing I can’t help wondering when my life-changing epiphany is going to take hold. I was really excited about the prospect of simply not caring about the petty, silly minutiae of my insecurities. “So what if the lumberjack from Prince George didn’t appreciate the subtleties of my “Sometimes Y” joke? I have a family that loves me, and that’s all that matters…” is what I would say, letting all such minor concerns fall by the wayside. That was the plan.
But here I am, approaching the biggest turning point of my life, and I’m still caught up in stupid worries about why that comeback jammed in my brain before I could deliver it, or what I’m doing differently that’s killing the goalie bit. And those are just the comedy worries. Never mind the day-to-day neurotic fretting over that lady that criticized my bad French at the post office, or the bus driver that wouldn’t let me carry my dog onboard. Surely these instances of life’s little hiccups should be paling in significance by now?
Maybe not. Maybe my post-baby self will be all too similar to my pre-baby self. Which is some cause for concern. ‘Cause I fully expected to worry about diapers, doctor’s appointments, late-night feedings and baby-proofed sockets. But I wasn’t expecting to worry about those issues AND still hold onto the mundane crap that I’ve been stressing over since I was six years old. I assumed my personal demons would move out of my head to make room for the new tenants. Now I realize they’re sticking around, knocking out some walls and adding an extension.
It’s a little disappointing, the thought that the new cool, deep, wisdom-infused David will not come into being with the snip of an umbilical cord. No, there are flaws a-plenty that will be sticking around. Possibly dormant, or at least sleep-deprived, for a couple of months, but ready to pick up where they left off as life reverts to a comfortable routine.
The upside is that while insecure David is sticking around, that also means immature David is sticking around. The frankly spectacular part of me that can describe every X-Men cover from 1975 to 1987, can recite the lyrics of the Buffy musical episode and who hears the sound of Star Wars Tie Fighters when he navigates a crowded sidewalk. Entering a new level of adulthood doesn’t mean throwing out the trappings of the old one. Again, you CAN take it with you. You can graduate college AND keep your sea monkeys and mini-fridge. So it’s not all doom and gloom.
I’m still looking forward to the growth that fatherhood will bring. But with growth comes extra weight that I’m going to have to carry. So I’m going to exercise. In this remaining “me” time I’m going to work out my angst-ridden self and just maybe rid myself of some angst. Contrary to popular wisdom, I will “sweat the small stuff”, or at least the selfish stuff, and maybe even get some of it out of my system. Like a champion body builder, I will pump existential iron until my self-esteem throbs and my superego aches. I will shed the calories of worry and the blubber of regret. I will feel the burn as I crunch every kernel of confidence, tone every sinew of self-validation and jog every memory of triumph and achievement. So when the time comes to add on more weight I’ll be ready. Heck, I’ll be in the best shape of my life.
Which ends in four months. Crap. I need to lie down.
posted by David Pryde at 3:12 PM
<< Home