Getting Older

A teeny tiny post.

“No one looked at me today when I walked home from work,” he said to her. And he’s handsome. But he has wrinkles and his hair has greyed.

And I get it. Because Todd took pictures of me last weekend. Pictures of a man I almost recognized — with a creased neck and a hairline that once was.

And I think back to 2 months ago. 

At Bar Palma. And how many more times than usual I smiled at strangers as if to ask them if I still had it, and how many more times than usual their eyes jumped away as if to tell me that I did not.

I think about having kids. 

And what that would be like. 

And what it would do to my mediocre career of Almosts. Swings untaken. Or taken and missed. And I think what I’d need to happen for me to be proud. And how I don’t know what that would be.

I see how they’re tired. My friends who are parents. And how they’re grateful. Or maybe distracted. As if having a family hedges against failing to figure out who you are.

And I fear what I’ll have to show. 

If I stay both unknowing and also without.

And I wonder what else there is. 

What else there might be. 

But maybe there isn’t. 

Maybe getting older is just coming to terms with walking home unnoticed.