Thursday, June 11, 2009

When I take a hard look at my social plan, measure its pulse, offer a brutal diagnosis, it’s quickly becoming apparent that, of all the adjectives I could apply to it, “successful” certainly isn’t one of them. I’ve made some effort to engage in society, sure, and yet deep down, even as I type this, I know I’ve expended an equal amount of negative effort to ensure the plan’s failure. Part of me is relieved, really, that the two communities I’ve explored haven’t had any real traction.

Obviously this won’t do. My current existence could easily be mistaken for that of the elderly or the incarcerated. Most of my hours are spent sitting, essentially, and aside from 15 to 20 minutes of sunlight and three squares a day, there might be an occasional round of golf on the weekends. Holy shit, you know? This is the reality I’ve fashioned for myself. Throw in a couple pairs of orthopedic shoes, a Jell-O social every other Wednesday, and a synthetic hip, and I’d be set.

The places where people my age statistically congregate appeal little to me. I was at the Epicentre a few weeks ago for happy hour, and it was as if all the city’s Hollisters, Gaps, and Abercrombies had violently collided into each other, creating a hot zone of fancy clothes, perfume, and hair product. It was ground zero for what may have been the most expensive mating dance in the natural order.

Before me is a rapidly shrinking list of venues. I made a rare quarterly appearance in church last weekend, and it wasn’t bad at all. Now, this isn’t to say I lasted through the whole service, but more on that later. Could it be? Is this the next community to investigate? Church? A “Lord help me!” would not be entirely sacrilegious here.