Misplaced Poignant Moments

I've noticed, over the years, that I find I often need a somewhat unrelated and rather smallish trigger to feel the full wistfulness in the relentless passage of time. Fittingly enough, this fit of melancholy is being sponsored by the last episode of That 70s Show, which was broadcast this evening.

This was a brilliant show. Set in Wisconsin, near my ancestral midwestern homeland, it reminded me of my childhood and my people... the short, swarthy midwestern weirdos with whom I grew up.

The piece that really triggered the wistful remembrances of times gone by was the retrospective show that they did just before the final episode. They did the obligatory walk through of the set and the interviews with cast members about their favorite memories. Flashbacks. Montages. Whimsy.

These shows always seem like they're so much fun to be a part of. Everyone is laughing at outtakes, having inside jokes, and saying how the experience changed their lives. It always makes me wish I had been a movie star on that set, just so I could have been a part of that happy crew of incorrigible youths.

Which brings me to the real life melancholy. I am no longer a youth. In fact, many of my friends are married and have children and/or extremely satisfying careers. In fact, some of my best friends just moved to Chicago and took their delightful toddler, whom I have known since her birth, along with them. Others are moving on, too.

I don't dance as much as I used to. The scene has changed. Something that I enjoyed three or four evenings per week has gone the way of the dinosaur. Sure, there are still dances going on, but when I show up, people ask where I'm from. I'm not longer greeted with exuberant smiles and endless dance partners. Instead, I stand in the corner and watch, as people I've never seen before approach and dance with other people I've never seen before. These are not my peeps. This is no longer my scene.

So, where is my scene? Well, I do spend quite a bit of time climbing. That, however, isn't really social enough to count as a "scene" per se. Where else do I spend time? Work. Tons of time at work. I talk people out of trees, into support groups, out of suicide, into self-disclosure... all day long, five days a week. This is also not a social experience.

I am left wondering, have I become one of those late-night lonely grocery store wanderers? Have my peeps become Joe Nightshift and the drunks who stumble about searching for the tatertot section? Stock boys. Bored checkout clerks. Bags of Fritos.

I have got to get out more and shake my thang. Time to revisit salsa dancing! Ay mami!