I don’t get out much.
I used to. I’ve had some cool jobs and have been all over the country and have met interesting people and have done fantastic things. I like to tell anyone who’ll listen about the time in June of 1996 when I visited Washington DC with two bigshot colleagues from the environmental community. (I was lucky enough to work at one of Michigan’s premiere environmental advocacy organizations for 10 years.) We went on the roped-off tour of the White House during the day – it was easier to get tickets back then – and then a few hours later we returned for a private, intimate reception with Bill Clinton, Al Gore and six hundred other tree-huggers from across the country. At one point I was sitting on Dolley Madison’s couch – it was no longer behind a velour stanchion but under me - eating jumbo shrimp as the President of the United States chatted mere feet away. I’ll never forget that surreal moment and I’ll never stop telling the story unless Anita follows through on her threat to shoot me if I don’t.
These days I find myself at home, in front of a computer, writing and net-surfing and listening for my kindergartner's bus to stop in front of the house. Sometimes MSNBC’s talking heads are prattling away in the next room; at other times the clicking sound of my fingers on the keyboard is interrupted only by a woodpecker or a UPS truck or the soft beeps of my coffee maker telling me that it’s turning itself off and any coffee remaining in the carafe will henceforth be cold.
In the 1980s I wore suits; in the 1990s it was jeans and open-collared shirts. Now I’m doing the sweats and t-shirt thing if I change out of my robe at all. I used to communicate with grownups about the earth-shattering and the mundane; now I talk to myself or no one in particular until the kids come home. I’m sure my vocabulary has shrunk along with my list of friends.
Oh, I have hundreds of Facebook friends – some of whom I really like. But I’ve learned you have to put time and energy into your real-world relationships if you want them to continue, and you need something in common. The adults with whom I used to work and drink and throw darts and discuss public policy aren’t raising four preteens and blogging. They’re not chaperoning field trips and settling arguments about lunch money. They’re not watching iCarly and Wizards of Waverly Place, and I doubt any of them is still wearing a robe at lunchtime.
When everything revolves around your children – when you don’t go anywhere without them, really – and your office is the corner of your dining room where your computer awaits, the world gets smaller. Your circle tightens and you sometimes worry that your perspective has become skewed. I find myself feeling excited rather than irritated when the doorbell rings, and disappointed when it’s a kid from the neighborhood wanting to play with one of mine. It’s gotten to where I’m happy to take a call from a pollster or bill collector because at least they’re old enough to drink.
Anita’s set up a few opportunities for us to dine with her friends from work in recent weeks which I’ve really enjoyed. I’ve found that my ability to engage in small talk hasn’t left me and I remember how to act my age. But I still have work to do if I’m going to become the well-rounded middle-aged man that I used to think I’d one day be.
I’m not complaining. I love my family and I dig my life. But it’s not perfect yet. Last weekend I snagged a free 36-inch color television for my children from a sweet, generous Facebook friend who lives nearby. It was supposed to go upstairs but I can’t carry it up there alone and it’s too heavy for Anita. So it’s sitting on the cold, concrete floor of the garage – right next to the two bales of hay we bought for landscaping purposes – until I can identify an acquaintance with muscle to help me out. The kids are allowed to visit their new possession whenever they want. They can’t turn it on but they can imagine.
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