The Vice Queen

I've been thinking a lot about vices lately, and the fact I hardly have any, and how wrong this suddenly feels. I've spent the last dozen years trying to eradicate vices from my life, and I have succeeded pretty well at this. And now that I am virtually viceless, and have navigated all sorts of pain and joy without the blessed soft-focus vices afford, I have to say being viceless may be overrated.

"So, what do you do when you break bad?" my mother asked me recently. I was stumped. "Um...well...nothing. Unless you count cussing. And eating potato chips in bed while I watch trash t.v."

As soon as I said this, I realized with a pathetic pit in my gut that I had somehow gone from being really young and wild with crazy, funny secrets to being just plain middle-aged with secrets that are best left untold, they are so lame. Oh goodness. This is not what I'd had in mind when I decided to quit drinking and smoking weed and cigarettes back in '99.

A couple of weeks ago, I went up to Walgreens and bought a pack of American Spirit cigarettes. Ok, first off, I am so...I don't know...I can't even break bad without doing it all organic and shit. And THEN! As if my all-natural cigarettes weren't dorky enough, I TOLD my husband. What the fuck? Oh, AND! I still have some. I hardly even smoked them. AND! (This is the real kick in the gut) I didn't really enjoy it that much.

I literally got the white picket fence, the two kids, the husband, and the backyard with a playset. But along the way, I must have sold my rock-n-roll soul, because I have a life devoid of well...SOUL. Well, I take that back: my life is full of soul. Lots of beauty and soul. Just not in a raucous rock-n-roll kind of way. More like a Beethoven kind of way. Sigh.

And I just don't know what to do about this. Something feels strangely awry.

Also. It seems that overnight I reached an age--a weird, sad little age--at which I do a lot of reminiscing about my youth, and the wild times I had, so as not to feel so old. Which makes me feel really old. Oh, and you know what else? Every two weeks a Rolling Stone magazine is delivered to our mailbox, and 90% of the time I have no fucking idea who that jackass on the cover is.

Oh, by the way, don't ever do this: drag a box of bikinis from ten years ago out of the attic and try them on for old time's sake. Even after an extensive tummy tuck, this is a very, very bad idea. All I could say to my butt and boobs was, "Wow. That is *not* where I left you."

And so, time marches on. Marches, sagging, right into the grave. Blam!

"Live today as if it were your last!" Yeah, RIGHT. Do you know how many dirty dishes are sitting in my sink right now?

Plus, I would be so pissed off if I had to live today like it were my last. Do you know how many fucking phone calls I would have to make, and how much crying I would do, telling everyone goodbye and how much I love them? I'd probably forget to eat; I wouldn't have time for a shower; and in between phone calls, I'd be dispensing random advice to my children. "Boys! Listen to me. Herpes is no joke..." It sounds like a really fucking awful time.

How about I live today as if it were my FIRST? Now that's an idea I can get behind! I'll sleep for 18 hours with someone holding me, telling me how beautiful I am. And whenever I wake up, a blissed-out, young woman will shove her tit in my mouth. Perfect. But that's just impossible. You can't buy that kind of experience at a dayspa. Or even a Vegas hooker ranch. Lame.

Which brings us back to VICES, ladies and gentlemen. See how very necessary they are? Recess for grown-ups. We NEED vices. I need vices. Just a couple. They can be relatively harmless. I don't need a meth habit or anything. Just something, puh-leeze, to get me through the day, to turn off my monkey mind, to help my whole body take a breather. Something to lower the fucking volume.

And if you tell me to take a bath, meditate, breathe, pray, write, play, dance, screw, make art, listen to music, light a candle, spread kindness, sing, garden, drink tea, take a yoga class, go to my psychiatrist, or go to an AA meeting, I will punch you in the face. THAT is what I have been DOING for twelve years, and it! ain't! cuttin' it!

But what other choice do I have, really? I guess I just have to do the decidedly unglamorous, tedious work of BEING. Gawd, it is unbearable sometimes. But the alternative is worse, I hear.

I guess the only thing worse than growing up is NOT growing up.

Although, there are some ways I hope I never grow up. Like I hope I'll never outgrow the humor of slapstick, my husband's politically incorrect jokes, my kids' totally nonsensical knock-knock jokes that invariably involve the word "poo poo", baby farts, dog sneezes, and playing ridiculous amounts of tag in the backyard with my little boys. And I hope I never grow up too much to enjoy the feeling of letting loose on a good old playground swing...