This is the last serious one, at least for a while. I promise. I prefer to get all these out in one go, like a band-aid. Trust me, we'll all be better for it afterwards. I'll throw in a joke or two somewhere, I'm sure.
Growing up is hard to do, as the songs say. And your parents. And just about everyone else, too. And you know what, like any good cliche, it's right. Still, like school, debts, cancer and Christians, it's just one of those inescapable facts of life. Sadly, no one really teaches us how to grow up, it's just expected that we will. Our parents coddle us, wrap us in protective blankets and hide us from the world, all the while telling horror stories of the big bad world out there, then seeming so shocked when we run out into it head first and split our skulls open. Schools are to busy being the tightly wound bureaucratic mini-government uni-recruitment centres that they are to teach you anything useful. And friends, well, friends are probably the most useful, in a "throw them in the deep end and hope they can swim" kind of way. But still, growing up happens. Painfully, and with more road bumps and pot holes than the Bruce Highway.
Let me tell you a little story. Recently, I made contact again with my ex-girlfriend. No, I'm not going to tell you about her. No, I'm not even going to tell you about us. While I have no issue abusing my privacy, I have no right to abuse hers. Suffice it to say, things didn't end well and we both took the childish approach of ignoring the problem and hoping it went away. And for her, at least, it worked. But me, I grew tired of the childish games. See, I was a man now. I'd moved out of home, I'd bucked the system, stood up to The Man. I had a new job, a bright new outlook, and enough pent-up sexual frustration to justify about damned near anything. Problem was, I'd gone and deleted her number from my phone. Though, thankfully, I had yet to delete a single message from my inbox. Call me sentimental. Long story short, we met up. It was a little awkward, but there was no screaming, no fighting. Somehow, in our time apart, we'd both grown up. The shit she'd been through in that time, well, a lesser person would have just curled up and died. And here I was, acting all superior, playing the good guy. She held up a mirror, unintentionally, and I saw a petulant little child staring angrily back at me, cigarette in his mouth and one hand down his pants. See, I'm one of those people that need a real big wake up call. That's one of the reasons I fell in love with her. She dealt almost exclusively in the massive reality calls. So ever since then, I've been trying to actually, properly grow up. Things have fallen silent between us since, I think we both know there's nothing left there. But there's a sense of closure in my heart now, and I no longer have to try to hide myself every time I see her. It's a small town and there's only so many cars to duck behind.
All that's all well and good, but fuck me if growing up isn't a bitch. There are times when I just downright hate it. I want to curl up in a ball and wish it all away. I hate paying rent, I hate paying more and more each week for fuel, I hate not getting to shop some weeks cause I just don't have the money. I hate washing, I hate ironing, I hate having to share a house with two other people, I hate how it's changed my relationships. Fuck, I just hate the damned change. And then I stand up, I think of my ex, and I punch myself in the face and pull myself together. I make my breakfast, take a teaspoon or two of cement, and harden the fuck up. I'm no longer the person who cries myself to sleep at night, I no longer need a strong mother figure to hide behind, and to hold me up, and to have wild crazy person sex with. I need to believe I'm different now. Independent. Strong. Even when all evidence screams to the contrary, I need to believe. Growing up is my religion, and the unattainable manhood is my God.
And that's it, that's all I have to say about that. I did my best, I threw in a joke or two, hopefully enough to lighten the mood a little. This is not a bummer trip, or a fish for sympathy. Just another peek behind the curtain. And sadly, it's late and I can't think of anything more witty, so I'm going to end this TS Elliot style: not with a bang, but a whimper.
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