Thursday, September 15, 2005

Post Decembrists. Things fall apart.

Many folks like to say that they're a young [insert age here]. Like so and so's grandmother who's 76 and goes out dancing every night to pick up what she can find in the way of single senior gents. She gets gussied up, made up, and picked up by the senior van. And then she'll tell you for as long as you'll listen that she may be 76, but she's a young 76. All this to give proper context to my allegation that I am conversely an old 24. Save the fact that I can, at my worst, be ornery and, should you become the brunt of my ill will, a killer of fun in all sorts of ways not fitting to a young person, my physical ailments have often been [self-] diagnosed as geriatric. I bruise easily, my gums are receding, I have bad balance, my eyesight is probably closer to blind that it is to 20/20, and my hearing occasionally departs from my right ear. (I can only imagine the image you have conjured up of me now, those of you don't know me, but note well that despite the medical history, I'm not all gray-haired and hip-breaking yet.) It is the latter two afflictions that have come to ruin my day and possibly the week ahead, which had previosly been looking on the up.

I woke up this morning groggy after last night's hoorah at The Decembrists concert at The Music Box at the Henry Fonda Theater...quick interjection to say, yes, I did find accompaniment to the show. No, it was not a male escort service. Yes, the show rocked. The Decembrists are like this group of--pardon my high school cafeteria throwback--rejects who sat together at recess and wouldn't play sports and made fun of the cheerleaders and the jocks and plotted revenge cause they were, like, obviously so much smarter and more talented than the cool kids and they would show them and they would start a band or something that would get really big and then the captain of the basketball team and the kickline girls would totally want to get to know them, but it would be too late man. But in The Decembrists' case, they actually were super talented and did start a band and did make it big. (N.B.--Above history may or may not be based on factual evidence. It also may or may not be a projection of author's own childhood years.) From the lead singer's Elton John-Jack Osbourne look to the drummer's tighty whities on the outside to the female accordian player who could only be said to look like a female version of an oompa loompa, the band looked like a bunch of misfits. But their energy was above average, their performance polished, and their sound, quite frankly, amazing.

But this is not a music review, and so I return to the matter of relevance. And the conditions brought on, and I realize now, only slightly relevant to my unfortunate, self-diagnosed state of premature aging (known to some as hypochondria). I awoke this morning and following usual routine ate, showered, readied. But when I went for my right contact lens from its case, fumbling around a bit and finally finding it on the bathroom counter, I was to find two jagged pieces of ripped plastic not even close to resembling the contact lens that had come out the night prior. In retrospect, this is my fault. Things don't fall [instantly] apart on their own. At least not expensive [high] prescription contact lenses. In my state the night before, which looking back must obviously have been a tipsy one, I either did some devestating thing to the poor lens on its entrance into its plastic case. Or perhaps did not even deposit it in there at all, leaving it on the counter to face the elements overnight--The cold. The mosquitos. My roommates.

In any event (as I would like to quickly focus away from my guilty association with the whole ordeal and turn back to my loss and suffering), I was forced to wear my bloody glasses all day which a) are cute enough, but not quite part of the new Cali look I'm going for here, and b) not adequate for purposes of seeing. And with eyesight like mine, that's rather jarring. In combination with the loss of hearing I've recently been experiencing in my right ear, I found myself walking around yesterday like a modern, moderate, [better looking] Helen Keller. The number of times I was forced to repeat What?!? to coworkers was embarassing. The drive home as I made 4 almost-turns for every turn I was to take as I couldn't see street signs clearly, mortifying, and more significantly, making me a menace to others on the road. I was supposed to venture out last night for drinks and was forced to quarantine myself away in the loft instead so as not to offend anyone with my four-eyed, deathly driving antics.

To make matters worse, the UPS box which contained both an extra set of contacts and drops for my ears and which had been sitting at the UPS store after 3 failed deliveries at my home, was...that's right...returned back to NY as I'd neglected to pick it up in time.


Well, I better get to bed before I hurt myself or others.

Seeing no evil. Hearing no evil. * Jessie


Rowena said...

ha! I feel your pain. After years of wearing contacts, which were becoming more and more uncomfortable, I finally bit the bullet and got an updated script for my glasses, and now force myself to wear them to unsexy places such as work. I have to confess I still feel self-conscious in them, but if I wear contacts I truly cannot see my computer screen properly for all the fuzzing up. And whaddya do when you wear glasses and it's sunny and you really need to be wearing sunglasses? Eh? It's all too difficult!

Los Angeles: a strange and unsober journey said...

I know! And I'm a sunglass freak--refuse to step outside without them! I think we need to start a specs are sexy movement. I'm on it.

Los Angeles: a strange and unsober journey said...

I know! And I'm a sunglass freak--refuse to step outside without them! I think we need to start a specs are sexy movement. I'm on it.