I meet lots of interesting people in middle age. Middle Age is kind of like Middle Earth, everyone is hairier, they drink better mead and they often discuss the size of their Hobbit holes. Wait…I’m talking real estate, not sure what you were thinking… but we middle agers often don’t reveal the interesting bits, instead going for the safe conversations, as we recreate ourselves as stand-up citizens. I was at a dinner party recently and a friend said, “Remember in our twenties, when we used to be care-free artist types, painting our bodies for artistic purposes…” she said this as one of our kids was crying in the background. We sighed.
“Yes,” I said, with a bit of sadness. “I do remember that.”
Coming from an art background, you meet all sorts of interesting people. Everyone was trying to find their own particular place in the artistic world, which often meant you had to try everything, do out-there activities, join flash mobs and nude bombings and, well you name it. There was no filter. When you are twentysomething, you assume you will burn out in a flame of glory, or perhaps live forever, but forever is really far away and so you might as well bungie-jump into the unknown. Your responsibilities included scraping by, rent money, and how to make a five-pound bag of potatoes interesting until the very end. Some of the artists I knew went on to make it; many did not. One has the most beautiful pottery sculptures lined up in his basement, unbeknownst to the world. One, well…one guy I knew painted with his, how can I say this…ejaculate. Sorry. I know you might have just spit out your coffee.
We were hanging out, not in a dating way, but in a “you are interesting to talk to” way. At some point he brought me to his apartment, which was plastered in posters of a cult band called “Negativeland”. This explained a few things for me, as I found him to often be quite negative. He was showing me around when he opened his fridge to get a beer, and I noticed a few small jars of colored liquid on the bottom shelf.
‘What are those for?” I asked.
He looked at me, obviously sizing up whether or not I could handle his truth.
“That’s…uh…sperm. I use it when I paint. Those are primary colors…” he sort of drifted off at this point, realizing that this may or may not go over. Besides trying not to laugh, I was at a momentary loss for something to say. This dude was a serious one, and I thought laughing might be a really bad idea. I also thought he might be one of the people my Mother warned me about, and quickly noted the exit route. I finally had a reason to use my art history knowledge! I tried to sound interested, asking about the reasons, did it offer luminosity, or was it texture he was after…He answered dutifully, obviously relieved that I hadn’t shrieked “Gross!” and bolted out of the room, which is actually what I wanted to do.
“Really, I just want my paintings to be a part of me. Like, really a part of me.” I nodded, trying to understand. Inside I was thinking, it is time to use the exit. I didn’t see much of this guy after that. We nodded politely on campus, and that was about it. I feel bad that this painting career ended our friendship, but hey.
HE KEPT SPERM IN HIS FRIDGE.
And perhaps that’s why in middle age, we just talk real estate. No one need know that we met our partners at fetish night, that we discovered our true selves at Burning Man, that we have been playing D&D for thirty years and are now a 300 level cleric. We have responsibilities and jobs and LinkedIn personas to uphold. But every now and again, after some expensive mead, we let loose that we were once young and interesting, perhaps too interesting.
