are gradually and imperceptibly drifting into middle adulthood, into that station in society that was not so long ago held by the so-called ‘baby boom’ generation. Dragged along kicking and screaming are all of those who swore adamantly that they would never grow up, that the magic ink in their tattoos and the batteries in their music players would provide the sustaining energy to reverse, or at least to halt, time itself.
While it isn’t always edifying to see the ‘my life cycle has successfully been paused’ cadre maturing haphazardly and somewhat untidily in ways that they swore were impossible, it is certainly to some extent vindicating.
Call me a cynic, but I was always sure that people couldn’t stay children forever. Time, the announcement of whose demise was (as is so often the case) premature, has won again.
I don’t know what life will be like five, ten, or fifteen years from now, but for the moment I can say that I feel very fulfilled in life, as though I am no longer ‘waiting for my story to start,’ but am rather (to use a vastly overused phrase) ‘living life to its fullest.’
There are some for whom the notion of ‘fullness in life’ cannot be reconciled with days spent studying and working, with a simple home life involving a dog and a few books, with a complete lack of hipster cool and wild party alike.
Poor folks, these.
Life can be good, as opposed to merely materially substantive for the skilled verbal acrobatics of the urbane cynic. I do all of those things that are most uncool, most grown-up: I teach; I cook; I read; I have a wife and a house and a dog.
I love it. It is like living in a Normal Rockwell painting, and the warm, autumnal glow of domesticity’s colors gives to every moment and every task the very character of childhood storybook tableaux.