Even though I wasn't in the mood to drag out the boat and row over to Skins's island, I did anyway, and damn, every time I go over there, it's like going to a reunion of my high-school graduating class.
It's always disconcerting, jarring.
Genetics of course have a great deal to do with how one grows older--but in the case of women, bearing infants excuses their own--and no one can fight genetics, but we all have at least some control over how we age.
I have two personal mottoes, one of which is "[franksolich], the same, yesterday, today, tomorrow, always the same," and from that one can (correctly) assume that I can still fit into, with room left over, clothes I wore at the age of 18 years, I still have all of my teeth, and a luxuriant head of dark brown hair.
I'm not bragging here, simply making a statement of fact that one has at least some control over how one grows older.....and of course I've had advantages many never did, such as the opportunity to live a pretty much carefree life.
But it's really depressing, watching my "classmates" grow old, fading into decreptitude, having lost their joy in life and all the people who enriched them.
I say "classmates" in quotation marks, because I'm referring to the primitives on Skins's island roughly circa near my own chronological age (give or take 12 years either way); I've been around Skins's island so long, and so much, these primitives and I might as well have been childhood playmates, high school classmates, college chums.
There's the instance of Playboy Pedro, commented upon yesterday (Wednesday).
And there's others such as Doug's ex-wife, who was the brainy girl in high school, but for whom Time has led to decay, what with her promiscuous consumption of mood-altering pharmaceuticals, leading to significant cerebral stoppage.
And the Bostonian Drunkard, the bon vivant, the hail-fellow-well-met of high school, but for whom Time has led to decay and flaccidity, what with his promiscuous consumption of alcohol, permanently paralyzing the brain-cells.
Or Chief S itting Bull, the bird-smacking stoned red-faced primitive, the loud mouth and bully in high school, but for whom Time has led to decay and deterioration, what with his unrelenting anger and Hate mis-directed at the inappropriate targets.
Or the warped primitive, the quiet modest girl in high school wrongfully accused of being "horse-faced" and "ugly" (children and teenagers can be cruel, but far from as cruel as fully-grown primitives), but for whom Time has led to decay and self-loathing, because no man ever told her something about her was beautiful.
And on and on it goes.
I learned a couple of years ago, after the last high school reunion (the real-life one), after the photograph taken of the class was distributed, a high school classmate's kid, upon inspecting the faces and bodies, asked, "Why is somebody's kid in the picture, with all you old people?"
That's the way I feel about the high school "classmates" on Skins's island; it's all very sad, but we do have at least some control over how we grow older, again, women who have borne infants excepted.
