How Are You?

 

When people ask how are you, do they really mean it? Do they really care? Or is it just some sort of social convention, but nobody actually gives a rat’s ass about you or your life?

So, when people ask me this question, I plaster a fake smile (real or virtual) on my face and I answer, verbally or in writing, I am well, thank you.

And I wish you wouldn’t ask me this if you didn’t care for an answer.

I can’t imagine what people actually expect you to answer. They assume you are going to tell them the truth about how you really feel, how you truly are? Are you going to pour your soul out and tell them everything?

 I don’t think so.

I don’t think they care enough to actually listen to what you have to say. Many times, the question is thrown at you while they are already walking past you, so what do they expect? That you are going to run after them, shouting about your latest achievements or failures?

I don’t think so.

And anyway, I am not going to burden some random acquaintance with the story of my life and the myriad problems I face.

Because, by God, my life is such an entangled mess lately. I am going through such a strange period.

I can see and feel that I am getting old. And like all new things, it scares me, because I don’t know what to expect.

Pain? Arthritis? Cataracts? Wrinkly skin? The feeling that you are losing your marbles, your stamina, your muscles? Bigger, floppy ears? Chin hair?

When we’re young we don’t think about old age. It is something so remote that it feels as though it will never happen to us. Or, if it does, it will somehow be different.

But it comes to all of us in the end, surprising us in the most unpleasant ways.

Your body starts betraying you. Your mind is not as sharp as it used to be. Your skin is dry and crepey and not so firm. Your hands are full of age spots.

And surprise! You hurt your shoulder when you lift a ten-kilo watermelon.

Of course, it is not all doom and gloom.

Old age can feel…liberating.

I mean, I stopped caring what people think, for starters. You know, what will the neighbors say? stuff.

I speak my mind. I wear whatever pleases me, even if it is a Guns N’ Roses t-shirt and holey jeans. And the colors don’t have to match, either.

I truly don’t know how much time I still have on this Earth. I am pretty sure I will spend half of it, if not more, worrying about my family and world peace. 

But I will try and spend the other half doing the things I love to do.

I am sure that from time to time I’ll shrug and ask myself Why bother?

Because even if I am old and I still haven’t found out the secret of life and afterlife, I can still lie on the beach at night, on the warm sand and watch the stars and galaxies being born and dying.

I can still listen to the waves of the sea, like a never- ending, soothing lullaby.

And even if I can’t say or write deep philosophical things like the Dalai Lama, I can still enjoy a good book and a pumpkin-spice-flavored coffee. I can still watch my cats chase butterflies in their sleep.

And marvel at the baby pigeon that just hatched in a small plastic basket hanging from my clothesline.

Life is good.

Life is bad.

Life is a mish-mash of tragedies and comedies, all at once.

We are the scale that tries to find equilibrium. We are the tightrope walkers with no safety net.

But who cares?

We have the wings of our own imagination.