The Day After

In 1983 ABC broadcast "The Day After" about nuclear war between the U.S.  and the Soviet Union.  I was in 8th grade and still remember how, by the end of the movie,  I had decided that when the attack came (and it was coming at some point without doubt) I wanted to be among the glowing skeletons, evaporated in an instant.  Surviving the cruel halls and danceless crepe-papered cafeterias of junior high were difficult enough.  As much as I hated my boring little town, there was no way I was going to survive its destruction and my own radiation poisoning.

Of course, instead of a nuclear winter, I eventually wandered into the black and gray folds of a teenage depression.  Accompanied by a persuasive goth and indie soundtrack I started to believe it was loneliness and/or boredom that was going to kill me and not some angry Russian.  My own bitter brain was a far more real enemy than any of the blatant bullies or cold-shouldered whisperers I'd actually encountered.

By the time I was sunk deep in the disappointments of a poorly chosen and disastrously executed college career, I was pretty sure that I'd not see the ripe old age of 40.  In my early twenties, I was so sure of this that I took on the persona of a cranky old lady.  It was as if I had to make sure to get in all that unfettered complaining about annoying people and their stupid ideas before it was too late.

And now, here I am, the day after my 40th birthday.  Not only did I make it, but with the help of my beloved city of Portland, a surprisingly appropriate career and a small but brilliant cadre of friends, the bitterness has diminished and what remains of my old lady persona is finally age-appropriate.  My beau now joins me as we shake our fists at the drunk fuckwads shouting outside our house at 2am.  Get off our lawn!  Don't you know people around here are trying to sleep?! 

Oh yeah, that's the stuff.  Here's to 40 and long beyond...