Sentimental Education
You don’t understand, my wife says (and this could refer to any number of conversations, but I’m referring to one in particular, involving her purse, and why she declines to carry the things I’m constantly asking for, like tissues and breath mints). Men don’t have purses, she insists, so they don’t get it. If you had a purse, she offers, managing—as only wives can—to be rhetorical, accusatory, and compassionate, you’d carry everything in it. I concede the point, knowing she’s right. Of course, I’d carry ample supplies of Kleenex and chewing gum, cough drops, random pieces of candy, dollar bills, special photos, and a back-up key, for starters—and this list is shorter than one I’d have made before cell phones replaced the machinations of analog transaction. And, knowing myself, I’d probably start carrying more personal, irreplaceable items, an indulgence of nostalgia and need. Why, for instance, would I leave that last handwritten note from my mother in a desk-drawer, seen only by accident or on purpose, when I could pull it out at a long red light, or while waiting for a friend to join me at lunch, or just for the comfort of knowing it’s right there if I need it? Or pictures I used to carry in my wallet, like departed dogs or my niece or nephew in grade school, documents preserved on paper before everything could ascend to digital heaven, kept safely in clouds. Maybe (okay, knowing myself, certainly) I’d get carried away and add other personal touchstones, like the Jim Rice rookie card my grandfather gave me during an era when the Red Sox still sucked, and being a fan was both curse of birthplace and badge one wore, the kind of suffering fan who still scratched phantom limbs lost in wars they never fought. Who knows where this would end, and I’d end up like a homeless man carting my belongings from place to place. Perhaps these obsessions would open unimaginable market opportunities and we’d see men transporting their sentimental necessities like carry-on luggage, wheeling them around the city, caricatures of the self-important business types we fancy ourselves. You don’t understand, my wife repeats, because you’re not a woman. Men would carry all these things because they could. Men would carry all these things because they couldn’t imagine anyone else stealing them.
Synesthesia
Shout Shout Let it all out. Come on I’m talking to you Come on.
It isn’t only what you hear that brings you back—recalling the things you saw, heard, smelled, felt.
(1985: sophomore year: acid washed abominations cuffed above too-clean sneakers.
Or lunch: a reliably tasteless stream of calorie laden acne fuel, food less urgent than money saved for LPs.
Or the girls you longed to…what, exactly? Not date so much as eavesdrop on, stare at, understand.
Or wasted hours wanting to be smarter, tougher, more popular, less afraid, everything except yourself.)
It’s also what you didn’t hear—the things you’ll hope for, dream about, cry over, come to fear.
(Not knowing the things you despise about your body are testament to a salubrity you’ll fondly recall.
Not aware of the kinds of pressures, pains, and occasional ecstasies awaiting you, after that last bell rang.
Not ripened enough to know about bosses or mortgages or growing old on the installment plan.
Not yet understanding: it isn’t only you or the kids in your classes: everybody wants to rule the world.)
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
