Someone told me once that a person’s creativity peaks around the time they are 18. After that, it is a slow or fast descent into the land of bland brains.
For me this was true.
In my teens and early twenties, I was a dancer and a poet. In fact, those were my majors in college.
What was I thinking? Yeah, I know.
I didn’t really “get the joke” about college and used it as a sort of second pre-school. It was a time of playing. It was a time of focusing on process as opposed to product. It turns out I really should have been more focused on the product of my diploma, because writing free verse and following the Grateful Dead doesn’t make anyone any money, and besides Jerry died.
Jerry, man. Fucking Jerry.
But I digress.
While it may be true I had my peak in creative energy at that time, it was random, unfocused, lazy, and unproductive. It led me to mad experimentation and often disaster well into my twenties.
Washing a pot I used to boil and mash potatoes, I think how everyone likes to tell me I shouldn’t eat potatoes. I’d like to give them the argument used by pot-heads everywhere. But it grows out of the earth. How could something so natural be bad for you? I mean, like, how could a potato be rotting my brain, man?
Fuck that. That argument drives me crazy. Anyway, I never inhaled.
I live a pretty staid life of moderation now. I try to set a good example for my kids, but I hate exercising. Life is hard, and instead of fueling me with the desperate urge to dance, run, or grab life by the balls, the torture of depression and anxiety makes me unmotivated, makes me want to curl up on the couch and go for that second helping of mashed potatoes.
Shut up about the gluten and simple carb shit already. I don’t NEED to eat them. I just like to. You know. . .
Life is pretty awesome too. I think about how my seven-year-old son has started carrying a book around with him, because he wants to be “that guy” who looks like he’s reading.
I think about my toddler’s laughter and how she can sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on her own now. Almost.
I think about that ginormous pot of mashed potatoes I made and how I can eat them all week if I want.
I wasn’t going to write today. But I did. See that?
Oh, and tonight is Master Chef. I wish someone would tell me they like” the cook” on something I made. But I guess there isn’t much to love about “the cook” on mashed potatoes of frozen broccoli.
So I did two things that were good for me today– I ate broccoli and I blogged.
Nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile.
And press publish.