Thrills

The lyrics to John Melencamp’s song, Jack and Diane, rattled in my brain as I visited the states last week:

Yeah life goes on

Long after the thrill of living is gone.

Everything I did was a slap in my face about my age.

It started with George Washington on the semiquincentennial. Yes, George. He was the guest of honor at my friend’s condo party in Chicago on the Fourth. Of course, condo parties are not for the hip and cool, but for those who don’t cringe at wearing a large name or JC Penney coordinates. After getting attendees to sing Yankee Doodle, George hypnotized a few guests. This isn’t how I imagined spending this monumental American holiday, not that I was expecting George to cut down a cherry tree or show us his wooden teeth. But making the tenant in apartment 10C think he was having a baby? That was definitely off my radar.

So then I asked myself, is this the only type of party I am invited to? Is the thrill of living gone just like penny gumballs, which now will put you back fifty cents?

No.

I got an invitation a free buffet from the neuropathy relief center.

If I’m not mistaken, a week ago I was pretending I was Edmund Hillary, daring the Huayhuash mountain range in Peru. Yes. It was thrilling to act closer to my shoe size than my age, but it keeps me more alive than any of 1,000 count bottles in Costco’s supplement aisle, which rivals in size with their wine section.

But it sucks being at the age when you worry about long chin hairs and waddle instead of walk. Or when you have to wear a winter coat on a Lake Michigan cruise in July. Yes I did.

But Chicago still has its thrills. The restaurants on Broadway between Diversey and Belmont will never bore my tongue. Even though Lima has the reputation of a Michelin star mecca. the only folks who eat at those places are out of town tourists. I have yet to find Chinese with szechuan peppercorns that can numb your mouth better than novacaine. Chicken Hut should be renamed Chicken Heist at those prices.

Another thing no-thrill adventure was waiting in line at the Secretary of State until 4:40 to update my driver’s license. I got there at ten and the sign read, “Walk-ins are welcome”. Six hours later, I got my two minute appointment, which literally consisted of updating my phone number, reading one line of letters, and getting a new photo that is so disturbingly bad, that I’m tempted to lose my license just for a new pic. My eyes bulge like a pufferfish behind my thick glasses. I looked older than George.

A Thrill

My oldest sister treated to the John Cougar Melencamp concert in Grand Rapids at the new Acrisure Amphitheater. I could honestly say John hasn’t had a wink of plastic surgery. He fired up the crowd by lighting up a few Marlboros on stage and sang songs with timeless lyrics. His Americana music made me feel both old and young at the same time, remembering when I first played his Pink Houses album on something called a turntable and now hearing the words a few rows away from someone rockin’ an oxygen tank. But with every song, my ears anxiously waited to hear the skip that has been embedded in my memory: I fought authority and authority always won… won… won… won…

I was also thrilled in GR meeting up for breakfast with a summer intern from my school in Lima, but being less than thrilled when someone asked if I was her mother.

I was thrilled to make it to the Detroit area where I played with my sisters dog, met up with another friend who shared a funny Japanese mistranslation about my butt pillow on my hike last month. She at the time was in Tokyo. The message should have read, yes, I packed my butt donut.

But I wasn’t thrilled to get back on the plane at Detroit Metro, slightly disturbed with the lack of security measures for an international flight, especially since there is much concern about immigration these days. I’d feel a bit safer having to flash my passport and buzz-cut border control agents instead of just smiling at a facial scanner at the gate. And the agents from Delta were more concerned about me boarding with the correct group than if I had the correct boarding pass–which I did not.

But I was thrilled to bring back more fun memories than what I could pack in a carry-on, along with my favorite kitsch momento from my years in China, my meridian man, who had slightly scantier clothing than the girl seated in 12A.

And I guess I’m thrilled and sad to be home, only to have a mound of laundry, a puzzle to finish and to discover that the handyman who did a bit if work forgot to flush.

I’ll spare you the photo of the toilet.