Warm Blankets
by David Estringel
One would think that at 54 years old, I would have my shit figured out, but much to my dismay—and to that of my parents who regularly turn over in their graves—I do not. At this point in my life, I am supposed to slow down, sit back, bask in the warm glow of my accomplishments, maybe learn a lesson (or ten), and scream at little punks to get the fuck off my lawn. While I am not pitiably off-schedule, a sense of lack persists that looms over my head—a pall, if you will—that is hard to shake, much akin to other chronic conditions like Long COVID or oral herpes.
The possibility of a midlife crisis is plausible, but I have already experienced three since my early 40s, so I stand determined that the problem runs much deeper than that; moreover, I don’t know many 108-year-olds. That ship has long sailed and sunk. I have entertained the idea of ennui, but ducking the shrapnel of life’s chaos on the daily keeps me busy enough, so that pretty much nixes any potential issues with boredom. Depression and anxiety are solid contenders, though the hole in my atmosphere never seems to go away, regardless of where my head is at or the doses of chemicalized ‘normal’ I refill monthly but selectively take. At this point, anyone’s guess is as good as mine, though my six dogs seem pretty secure in their theories.
My inner voice directs me to look at the decisions I make (and have made) to gain some insight, some clarity into my current existential crisis. After all, that is how I would guide someone else who was knee-deep in my situation. Surveying a lifetime of questionable decision-making is challenging, however, too arduous (not to mention depressing) a task to undertake to extract any kind of meaningful data, especially for one who doesn’t have the stomach for it. Plus, we are all biased animals given to inertia, so I have serious reservations about the source. Given this fact, going ‘meta’ is more likely to garner the answer I need--the panacea that will cure me of my angst or (at least) act as a prophylactic against future infection.
After giving things some serious thought, gleaning poignant “aha” moments from an internal retrospective of sepia-colored—yet entertaining—life experiences, I have come to realize that the common thread that ties my entire narrative together is my love of ideas about ideas, letting my mouth water over the sweet frosting of one shit cake after another. What better way to ensure a life of continuous disappointment and longing for “how things are supposed to be”? Discovering this should excite me (or at least give me some peace), I suppose, but so far attaining such an illuminative state feels somewhere on par with owning the best house on the worst block or getting a positive result on a pregnancy test: It can go either way.
This naïve (if not just plain lazy) approach to tackling life has put me in more precarious situations than anyone should have to endure in a single lifetime. Worse yet, it has facilitated a pattern of personal and professional failure that I have not only used to erroneously define myself over the past 30 years but also view (and make sense of) the world that surrounds me. Still, despite all the fuck-ups, I can’t say I didn’t have some fun. But, oh, those fuck-ups…
In my early 20s, fresh out of college and neck-deep in student loan debt, I decided one day that teaching Language Arts to junior high students would be just the thing to superglue my chaotic and fragmented life together. The idea of teaching young minds that thirsted for knowledge excited me, made me feel a sense of purpose—something I was running low on back in the day. Somehow, however, I managed to turn a blind eye to my general disdain for children (at that time)—an after-effect of years of high school bullying—and a sincere belief that they were innately evil creatures who consumed, consumed, and consumed, like locusts, everything around them with little regard for much else outside of their purviews. Moreover, I found them irritatingly oblivious to the fact that they were only interesting to each other, their parents, and their therapists (the latter who, by the way, got paid to care). The rest of us non-parentals (for the most part) couldn’t have cared less, not holding the same levels of fascination for macaroni art and participation trophies that our procreating counterparts did. Luckily, I have lightened up in my old age.
Needless to say, my first attempt at a career crashed and burned like the Hindenburg, resulting in a swift resignation, a case of GERD, a two-martini-a-day habit that lasted longer than the job did, and a case of dashed self-esteem I still haven’t completely shaken off. For weeks afterward, I wracked my brain trying to figure out how I could have made such an egregious miscalculation, how I could have gotten things so pathetically wrong. Nothing came. Unable to find the answer I needed, I conveniently chalked it all up to watching too much Saved by the Bell over the summer break: I fell in love with an illusion. Damn you, Zack Morris! The idea was nice enough, but the reality, sadly, left much to be desired.
Creating an existence based on smoke and mirrors isn’t all that bad, however; it does the trick in a pinch. If we are really honest with ourselves, ‘reality’ isn’t all it is cracked up to be. I can say that, actually, having trekked midway along my timeline with most of my faculties intact. Sure, I am a little smarter and a little wiser, but at what cost? Fallen pecs, a receding hairline, and a case of old man butt that awaits just yonder beyond the horizon to pounce when I am not looking, that’s what. I don’t eat meat because it causes heart disease. I stay away from dairy because I don’t want to die from prostate cancer like my father did. I stay mentally active to remain sharp and not lose myself in a slow disintegration of gray matter like Mom. So, I know reality and accept it, but that does not mean that I don’t want my fucking sirloin steak and Cherry Garcia, that “the frosting” has lost its appeal. Life is hard enough as it is with its severe turns and sharp edges, but it’s the little delusions and convenient fictions we create for ourselves that take the edge off some. Those and gin.
Frankly, loving ideas about ideas gets many of us through the perils and futility of our daily lives, makes enduring our self-fulfilling prophecies, like joining a gym or having sex with an ex palatable. To clarify, the latter should not be confused with ‘angry sex,’ which entails being so pissed at the person you are naked with that the only option to avoid implosion is to take it out on each other’s genitals. There’s a fine line. Regardless of the flavor, one shouldn’t underestimate the benefits of living a funhouse mirror existence, especially ones that get you from shower to cum rag without a single wince or retch. Convenience is key, after all. Reality has no place in either scenario, really, as the allure of these methods of self-injury positively correlates with the depths of denial and low self-regard one can manage to frack. Frankly, I prefer not to pontificate too much on my proclivities toward being a ‘sexual cutter’ as I blindly fumble through my nightstand drawer in the dark for the lube. So, I lie to myself some more and keep the illusion going…just a little longer.
Given that, the promise of a slow morphine drip of avoidance (maybe even a little vice) doesn’t seem all that insane.
Thinking further about it, though, loving ideas about ideas should hardly be considered a pathological tendency. We all have pre-conceptualizations about things before we immerse ourselves in our experiences; that is true about the people we meet, the lovers we take, and the paths we dare to tread. Ideas about ideas are like warm blankets that we wrap around ourselves when things are uncertain and anxiety-provoking, making us feel safe and secure (no matter how fabricated). Isn’t life about trying on people, places, and things to see what sticks, hoping for the best? Disguising the fact that these things are likely hot stoves placed in our paths for the sake of learning a thing or two about ourselves and life? Maybe we all need a healthy dose of unsubstantiated optimism to blindly propel ourselves forward and maintain (sustain) momentum. Maybe.
Some people find their niches (and their vision) early, while others—unfortunately—find themselves in seemingly never-ending stumbles toward desperate quests for ‘home.’ Then again, some find what they are looking for but harbor significant doubts about their choices because things don’t look the way they assumed they would. No matter where one lands on that spectrum, outcomes—good or bad—result from a reconciliation of expectations with experiences, ultimately requiring faith and an iron stomach, which are two things I often find myself having very little of. Looking at it through that lens, while theoretically validating, the odds still suck that things will turn out in our favor. Still, not looking at life in terms of what is ‘fair’ and what isn’t helps tame the sting a bit. After all, life is not fair or unfair (for that matter): It just is. Amen.
Whether we like it or not, all roads lead back to the quality of our choices; I get that. People say that it is how one handles the consequences of one’s actions (i.e., fuck-ups) and life’s curve balls that define who they are, but that essentially amounts to a bunch of revisionist bullshit. People keep tabs, including myself: We are disappointing that way.
Still, life stops for no one. We must merrily trudge forward, blindly and bravely, into uncertainty, trying to not let things, like harsh realities, deter us from our goals and dreams and send our metaphorical gonads shooting straight back up into our abdomens. ‘Diving in’ is not an option; it is a necessary risk that all of us have to eventually become comfortable with if we plan to evolve beyond the narrow boundaries of who perceive ourselves to be. Such bravery can be illuminating. It can reveal aspects of ourselves we never knew existed. It can reinforce the notion that we, indeed, are more—more than gin martinis, self-injurious sex, and woobies, anyway. Maybe the trick is to not “expand” too far beyond the ground beneath our feet; to keep our eyes on something solid and real, as we ultimately choose to recklessly spin upward into the clouds; and to have an inkling of where we are going to land when we inevitably fall. Maybe somewhere softer…next time.
BIO: David Estringel is a Xicanx writer/poet with works published in literary publications like The Opiate, Literary Heist, Cephalorpress, DREICH, Sledgehammer Lit, Ethel, The Milk House, Beir Bua Journal, and Drunk Monkeys. His first collection of poetry and short fiction Indelible Fingerprints was published April 2019, followed Blood Honey and Cold Comfort House (2022), little punctures (2023), and Blind Turns in the Kitchen Sink (2023). David has also written six poetry chapbooks, Punctures, PeripherieS, Eating Pears on the Rooftop, Golden Calves, Sour Grapes, Blue, and Brujeria (coming soon from Anxiety Press). Connect with David on Twitter @The_Booky_Man and his website www.davidestringel.com.