The other day I couldn’t figure something out, simple arithmetic, no big deal, easy as pie (which isn’t) or as riding a bicycle (which no longer is, alas). I could have enlisted my computer to assist – our universal prosthesis! – but I was alone – and obstinate – and horrified by this lapse. It’s like losing the name of a loved one – it isn’t possible – it must be in there somewhere! – or is my mental deterioration more advanced than I dare admit?
It took several minutes, but I got it done – this time. I could probably ride a bike with the same facility. (Forget the pie.) I hadn’t “lost it” – that priceless “it” – not yet – but I would -- unless some other body part failed me first.
Were I in another line of work (or play), I’d probably skip this anecdote, shrugging off my failure as a stumble – stutter – no big deal – “one of those things that happen.” I might even rustle up a cause for this momentary mishap – the flu, fitful sleep, some new medication, etc. We excuse ourselves to ourselves incessantly, often with patent hooey, to disguise our truth. Or we alleviate our dread with adjectives like “age-appropriate” or “anomalous.” “Say it aint so, Joe,” “this can’t be happening,” “it’s just not me” – we’ve got lots of phrases to dispel the indisputable: existential flyswatters.
Self-enrolled in the candor game, such an evasion must be rated a defeat. So what that nobody else knew about this “non-event”, I would know, and my cowardice would gnaw. Maybe I lacked the guts to face the facts. Maybe I wasn’t half the hotshot of consciousness I paraded as. Maybe my cowboy hat was plastic and my six-shooter a water pistol.
So there you have it, friend – I’m deliquescing before your eyes – like a snowman after the Ides of March – dying, though so far no diagnosis. Aren’t we all. Life’s a losing battle. Better, we may sigh, not to live so long, only we don’t mean it. Most of us want to live as long as we can – until we can’t.
I lied to myself most of my life. This happens often, I’m pretty sure. The heroes of our own stories, we buff and tidy and mask our flaws. What’s wrong, we may bristle, with putting my best foot forward! If I don’t endorse myself, who will!
The more onerous our expectations, the likelier we are to deceive ourselves. Intolerable my shortcomings – and insuperable, apparently – I am so much less than I had in mind, my achievement so paltry, how can I face that mirrored face! Yeh, I forgive myself, I guess – why waste zest kvetching? – but oh, self-awareness is hard!
It’s a comfort to know I’m dying. I’m in no hurry – I mean to eke out the last drop of appreciable existence – but then, basta, game over, I’ll be done. To hell with any afterlife – it’s a form of masochism: having fought my fight, I’ll be glad to sleep.
In the meantime – the only time we’ve got – I teach myself grace. Though a surly student, I do not skip class. I read the sages, assess my predecessors, delineate my ideal, give myself a good talking-to when required. Speaking my shame aloud I feel cleansed by the process. Confession’s a way better anodyne than Zolpidem.
Morality steers a tricky course between the Scylla of Defeatism and the Charybdis of Triumphalism. Let me neither degrade nor deceive myself. Give me the strength, dear God, to see this creature as he is. So he can’t do simple math – he can still shape a shapely sentence, can’t he?