The thing is, I'll turn fifty-two next month, so I've been having to deal with the sudden realization that my life is almost half over. It's caused me to wonder things like:
Narcissism: self-centeredness arising from failure to distinguish the self from external objects…
Codependency: a type of dysfunctional helping relationship where one person supports or enables another person's addiction, poor mental health, immaturity, irresponsibility, or under-achievement.
Failing to recognize his own disruptiveness to the other patrons in the restaurant, Roger took yet another long, loud sip of black pekoe as he read the fortune he had just extracted from his cookie. "Here's my fortune," he said to his seemingly disinterested lunch-mate, Blake, who was sitting blank-stared, obviously thinking of... something. "It says,
'Many receive advice; only the wise profit from it.'
"I'm sorry, but I just don't see how that's gonna help anybody."
One man said it like this:
"Every day, I have this choice to make. Every single day, and it doesn't ever go away. Every day, I must choose to view my life and my accomplishments either one of two ways:
When a man sees a woman he finds attractive, there is this internal impulse. Some kind of fundamental drive. Who knows where it comes from? But it transcends sexuality, for it comes up whether he's admiring his own wife, his daughter, his neice, or a friend's wife or daughter. It is a thing that arises out of the beautiful "femaleness," or perhaps the perfect femininity of the woman or girl. As a man, he sees this and admires it. He is momentarily captivated by it.
The man thinks to himself, "I want to hold her."
The stinging chill of the night air cut through my alpaca wind breaker like a Frenchman on a mo-ped in rush hour traffic as I reached for another fag. The distant, muted cacophony of the surf beyond the jetty, the pungent fragrance of the tailings of yesterday's catch, and the oddly diffuse brilliance of a full moon peering down through a meandering marine layer all conspired to set the mood—a doleful, introspective kind of mood.
There I was, standing at the reception desk at the doctor's office. I was locked up. Stumped. I couldn't answer her simple question.
What is it about indecisiveness that I hate so much?
It's not that it uses up time (though the older I get, the less patience I have). No, I think it's because of the complications it adds to life. There are two basic types of indecision that drive me crazy, and they both center around stuff that just doesn't matter that much. The two scenarios can be exemplified as follows:
It was never a question, for myself, whether I would one day
be what, and whom, I wanted to be.
The fact had always stood,
with opportunities in abundance.
But there that day the questions seemed to proliferate.
What next to do that I hadn't already tried?
—or that wasn't so similar as to quench
any hope of satisfaction in my quest.
And, "Quest for exactly what?" I could no longer answer.
Had I ever known? Or was I now just tired of the empty humor.