You’ve woken up some days and wondered how this became your life, right? This can’t just be me. It’s impossible. It feels almost poetic in its commonality. Like we all hit that age or get to that point where we wonder how we turned into the people we are. Or how we got ourselves into these situations.
I wake up some days and don’t understand that this is my body and my brain and me doing the things I’m doing. Here I am, brushing my teeth in this bathroom on the second floor of this little house that I own. And here I am throwing a ball in the backyard for this big brown dog who tries to murder other dogs when given the opportunity. And here I go, off to work, in this Subaru Outback with leather seats, so I can do something called “account management” and talk about “digital marketing” and I’m not even totally sure I know what those two things are. And here I am now talking to my husband about kids and the stock market and whether or not we believe the woman’s story or the man’s story in The Affair (excellent show, btw).
I have a really shoddy memory, though. I don’t remember much from my teenage years. I remember hating high school and my mom and that I was The Kid who thought she was So Cool and didn’t go to class and smoked cigarettes in my little Celica on my way home (with the windows down so my parents wouldn’t know). But I don’t remember the specifics. I don’t remember which restaurant we dined at before homecoming. I have pictures of it, but couldn’t tell you where we were. I can’t remember what kind of hockey stick I played with in high school, or the names of my teachers or who I sat with at lunch, or why I broke up with so-and-so or how so-and-so dumped me.
Will I forget today, too? Will I forget my wedding? Will I remember eating the wedding cake leftovers the very next day, like two animals on the couch sharing a fork, high on raspberry filling? Will I remember traveling for work and getting shitfaced with my coworker and coming up with a bunch of drunken business ideas (some of which were excellent, I must admit)?
Will I be able to look back at my late 20s when I’m old and decrepit and my skin is peeling off like crepe paper and remember anything specific and worthwhile?
I feel disconnected from my life, like I’m a ghost floating through a bunch of movie scenes, never fully present or acknowledged, unable to focus and absorb anything material.
So just me, then?