0 and 5

One of those approaches.

I don't remember 0, 5, or 10.

I think 15 was the year that I lay on the modular sofa in the basement with all the lights out listening to the radio and, ever the teenager, working through my latest suicide plot. Dad stormed down and dragged me upstairs. He brought home a chocolate mousse cake. I sensed he was ashamed that I didn't have the birthday plans of a popular kid. (Or could see a lot of Mom's bitterness rubbing off on me.) My brother jokingly brought a fire-extinguisher. This may have been the year he was talked out of buying me a computer and into getting me a TV instead. (Grrrr.)

20 was when we skipped the huge pro-choice march on Washington to go see the sunrise in Montauk, and it rained. Eight undergrads. One Geo Prizm. Rest stop in the shrubbery surrounding a mental hospital. It didn't feel like a classic nutty college story at the time. Ok, maybe a little.

25 was Crown Tourney in Rhode Island (?), with Boaz, who was so over me, if one charitably assumes he had enough interest to even require the getting over. An odd weekend at an event, since an explosive drama at that 12th night effectively ended my days in SCAdia. I was spending most weekends training to be a Zoo Docent. The visit to New England poignant, my plan to move to Providence by April died with that drama. My dreams of escaping Utica disintegrating. "I could've belonged here."

The previous weekend (mere days after I bought The Downward Spiral CD!) local SCAdians would include a surprise cake at our non-event weekend hanging out. I would be taken out to lunch the following week by two coworkers, eventually fired suspiciously enough that I still wonder if my only attraction to them was being the bosses' kid.

30 was a near perfect party. I shipped in half-moons and rootbeer from Utica, my quaint hometown. coolwhitestare gatecrashed with poprocks, and did my dishes. That's the kind of gatecrashers I like.

If one is looking for patterns, and I always am, no matter how much I reason with myself, 35 will be a transition year, more than celebratory. (I don't have the stamina to organize a party, and may end up just going home for Easter Sunday.) Transition into what? where? I didn't know then I was soon to escape via NIN. What will be the Providence that taunts me for the next decade? The lark with a touch of the inevitable. What am I about to miss?

0 and 5

One of those approaches.

I don't remember 0, 5, or 10.

I think 15 was the year that I lay on the modular sofa in the basement with all the lights out listening to the radio and, ever the teenager, working through my latest suicide plot. Dad stormed down and dragged me upstairs. He brought home a chocolate mousse cake. I sensed he was ashamed that I didn't have the birthday plans of a popular kid. (Or could see a lot of Mom's bitterness rubbing off on me.) My brother jokingly brought a fire-extinguisher. This may have been the year he was talked out of buying me a computer and into getting me a TV instead. (Grrrr.)

20 was when we skipped the huge pro-choice march on Washington to go see the sunrise in Montauk, and it rained. Eight undergrads. One Geo Prizm. Rest stop in the shrubbery surrounding a mental hospital. It didn't feel like a classic nutty college story at the time. Ok, maybe a little.

25 was Crown Tourney in Rhode Island (?), with Boaz, who was so over me, if one charitably assumes he had enough interest to even require the getting over. An odd weekend at an event, since an explosive drama at that 12th night effectively ended my days in SCAdia. I was spending most weekends training to be a Zoo Docent. The visit to New England poignant, my plan to move to Providence by April died with that drama. My dreams of escaping Utica disintegrating. "I could've belonged here."

The previous weekend (mere days after I bought The Downward Spiral CD!) local SCAdians would include a surprise cake at our non-event weekend hanging out. I would be taken out to lunch the following week by two coworkers, eventually fired suspiciously enough that I still wonder if my only attraction to them was being the bosses' kid.

30 was a near perfect party. I shipped in half-moons and rootbeer from Utica, my quaint hometown. coolwhitestare gatecrashed with poprocks, and did my dishes. That's the kind of gatecrashers I like.

If one is looking for patterns, and I always am, no matter how much I reason with myself, 35 will be a transition year, more than celebratory. (I don't have the stamina to organize a party, and may end up just going home for Easter Sunday.) Transition into what? where? I didn't know then I was soon to escape via NIN. What will be the Providence that taunts me for the next decade? The lark with a touch of the inevitable. What am I about to miss?