I Thought That I Do

One excellent thing about working as a server in a restaurant is that you get to spy on people.  All sorts of people eat out at restaurants, and you get to talk to them.  And keep an eye on them, and play a very voyeuristic role in the production of their meal.   You see them create their own atmosphere upon arrival, you see them make decisions, and you see them undertaking in an undeniably huge moment of pleasure: taking the first bite of a delicious looking meal.  Of course, people who work at restaurants where the food isn't good might not understand that last part.   

To do your job well, you've got to be paying very close attention to the people you're serving.  And this gives you a glimpse, whether your like it or not, into some intimate part of those people.  

The other evening I served a couple who revealed, at one point, their ages of 85 and 85.  And no, they didn't show me that love lasts or something.  What they showed me, I think, was much better...  They sat through most of their meal in silence, looking around at the decorations on my restaurant's wall.  They were very polite, and gave me (quite obviously) that look that older people sometimes give.  The best translation for this look is: "yeah, you're young.  And you're doing this.  And I get it."  This look manifests in one of two ways: it can either accompany a smirk or a smile...  and this smile is one of the most beautiful faces a person can make.  

They loved their food, and they made sure to tell me all about the different ways in which they loved it.  I occasionally witnessed them as they took bites and relished what they experienced and were about to experience.  

Each of these bites was a new moment, a new recognition, a new appreciation, and a new acquaintance with their food.  Everything was new.  And after they had finished their meal, and we'd all spoken cheerfully about how the restaurant used to be a bar which used to be a gas station (for they'd been in the same neighborhood their entire marriage, and had been to all these places,) I noticed an unmistakable look on both of their faces.  It showed through their smiles, It emanated past their full and reclining bodies.  It was youth, and I'm sure of it.  

I remember telling others in high school that I would "never grow up."  It seemed, at times, that I told this to others because I'd grown tired of telling the same thing to myself in the mirror.  Because it's easy to look yourself in the mirror and tell yourself in your head that you are always going to be something.  And most times I look in the mirror, I've prepared myself for the arrival of the image of my face, even if just milliseconds before.  And then, sometimes, I see myself in a reflection without having prepared myself, and I'm shocked.  I can see myself there, in that memory that we all have, finding my reflection  jumping as though it has been caught.

The only mirror in my apartment is in my bathroom.  Each trip to the bathroom involves a look in the mirror, and these are (for the most part--not to discount my trips to other bathrooms) my only moments of looking in the mirror.  And I cherish these small moments throughout the day.  And of course this sounds awfully narcissistic, but it isn't out of a vanity or hollow self-indulgence that I enjoy these moments.   I appreciate them for being those times I really retreat into myself...  perhaps nobody else does (not likely, I think) but I always say words to myself when I see myself in the mirror in the bathroom...  I always greet myself with something.  Sometimes it is as though I'm asking myself permission for something, important only because of my eye contact with myself, and yet seemingly unavoidable...  

That part of me that insists "you will never grow up" exists every time I look in the mirror.  It might not have the tangible benefits for me as, say, getting a tattoo of the cover of Where the Sidewalk Ends, but it is there.  And while I used to see only my youth, I now have a constant voice telling my face in and out of the mirror that "I have grown up."

And sometimes this is sad.  Sometimes it is wonderful.  But it is always in contrast to the other voice, the one that insists eternal youth.  

And that latter voice, it exists in me more presently and noticeably in my day to day life than the "I have grown up" voice.  Because I sense things...  because I learn to know things...  because I enjoy food, and Andre champagne, and playing my video games, and saying hello to strangers, and moves...  everything I enjoy is a part of my youth.  Furthermore, everything I feel reiterates my youth.  And as long as I am alive, I will have that youth.  And this gives me one reason to be satisfied.  With my choices, with my impulses, with my routines, with my faults, with my strengths...  

But then that other part of me...  it is so strong at times.  When I realize that I've left things and people, and that I've been left by things and people, this side of me is so strong...  it is the all encompassing of the past over the present...  the slowly degenerative state like that of a vegetable left too long on a kitchen counter.  

But.  If these are two sides competing or, hopefully, coexisting, I might side with the view of me who knows that as long as life is happening, youth is happening...  pleasure and happiness are existing.  And if I do, won't I see that even moments of dissatisfaction--those that promise nothing but an aging past--are always accompanied by a youthful movement towards an impulse of feeling, towards a decision, or (perhaps best of all) towards something about which I know nothing?