Crossing the line isn’t always pretty

There are moments in life when everything changes. Graduation, marriage, the birth of a child, the first time a loved one dies; even something so trivial as getting a first driver’s license or first apartment can mark the beginning of a new chapter in life’s story.

It can be scary. To pass each of these milestones is to forego the likelihood of ever going back. Life, after all, offers no rewind button.

That being the case, you’d think people would be careful about the choices they make. And maybe some folks are careful. Others, like me, less so. If you want proof, I can give you the numbers of my ex-wives. They’ll set you straight.

I rarely even realize I’m at a crossroads until it’s already miles behind me and the damage is done. It’s a personality flaw (one of many) that has made for a turbulent, if interesting, life.

As a kid, these defining moments came and went with jarring regularity. My family changed addresses more often than most people change socks. It was rare that we lived at a single address for more than a year or two.

Both my parents had that old “wandering bone,” as the Creedence tune goes. I don’t know how old I was before I realized some kids lived in the same house and town from birth to the time they moved away to college or got married.

I’m sure there’s a sense of comfort in that, of permanence. But I never envied those kids. When you grow up nomadic, you get used to it. I did, anyway. It wasn’t until I was in my 40s that I began to wean myself from that Gypsy lifestyle.

I tried to settle down. Then tried again. And again. I’m still trying. To be fair, my efforts are improving. Those life-shaking moments come less frequently nowadays, due, I suppose, to my age.

I consider myself middle-aged; that’s entirely accurate, assuming I live to be at least 126, which is what I have planned. I suppose I’d settle for 120, but anything short of that and I want to speak with a manager.

At any rate, these watershed moments, though rarer than they were in the past, do still happen. I had one just last week, in fact. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time, but now I’m thinking maybe it was.

It was a Thursday evening and I was about as skanky as a human being who hasn’t been confined to a medieval dungeon can get. Hadn’t showered in three days, hadn’t shaved. When you work from home, personal hygiene becomes a matter of choice, rather than necessity. When you live alone, this is even more true.

I was fashionably attired for the evening; fuzzy pants, a T-shirt bearing evidence of the previous evening’s lasagna, old house slippers that look as if they’ve spent a year or two beneath a rock in a riverbed. I was, basically, all set for senior prom.

My mountaintop hermit ensemble and questionable smell were just fine for the evening I had planned: sitting in my easy chair with a good book and maybe some wine.

And then I remembered the ice cream shop is only five blocks away. I hate it when I remember that, especially after I’ve settled in for the night. Yet it happens more often than you’d believe.

Now, I do have a closet filled with laundered, ironed clothing, some of it stylish even. I could have changed into something more suitable for public consumption. Five years ago, this is exactly what I would have done.

Five years ago, I was still vain. I have no real reason to be vain, either then or now; I’m neither ridiculously handsome, nor brilliant, talented or personable. In truth, I’m just kind of average, as are most people. (Hence the word “average.”)  Yet somehow, I’ve managed for decades to convince myself I’m a dead ringer Brad Pitt during his “Thelma and Louise” days. There’s absolutely no evidence to support this delusion, but I’ve arduously maintained it anyway.

And part of that artificially inflated egomania was that I never left the house unless I was showered, shaved and shiny as a new penny. Just in case I was mobbed by legions of adoring fans. (This has yet to happen, but hope springs eternal.)

But there I was, skulking out the door and into the early evening chill looking for all the world like an escaped mental patient and smelling like a wet dog bed.

Who would see me, I reckoned. I’d be in the car. Besides, I’ve shopped at Walmart; I know there are lots of folks who walk around looking like I did on a regular basis. It’s not like there’s a law against it, right?

It wasn’t until I was at the drive-through window that I began to fully appreciate the line I had crossed. My Brad Pitt days were now irrevocably behind me; my Walter Matthau days lay ahead.

I suppose I should feel depressed by this rite of passage, but I don’t. It’s actually a bit liberating, this first small step into grumpy old man-hood.

All my life I’ve managed to roll with the changes and monitor my journey only through the reflection in the rear-view mirror. It’s probably too late to change now, even if I wanted to. I’ll just have to hope I can dodge those legions of adoring fans, at least until I’ve had a shower.