À propos

Whose life is it anyway?

Is this one, ostensibly mine, in truth an extension of my mother’s, my decisions and my path attesting to her skills, her mores, her progress toward being a decent person?

Or is this a race to heaven, perhaps a qualifying preliminary, with watchful eyes on me, keeping a running tally of moves good and bad?

Some enlightened student has surely theorized that we exist to serve the mission of capitalist masters, field laborers in a grand design to amass fortunes for a few. And at various points in human history they wouldn’t be far from the truth – more than a few unlucky ancient peoples spent their glorious 25-year life expectancy hauling rocks from creeks to pyramids.

Let your mother take charge and she will, ask for some divine purpose and you’ll spend your life seeking it, sit at the office and your time is now that of the company. And, so we’re clear, while these are your only three options, there will be judgment in whichever you select. Attempt to balance between them and face resentment from each. Bring in a partner that dares to have an individual opinion, to push a fourth agenda, and prepare for outright civil war.

Tradition dictates this push and pull between moms and gods and bosses, and tolerates the influence of mouthy partners as a necessary means to an end. Early 20s are for working long hours and dating, late 20s for marriage and children. Rotarian, deacon, maybe later in life a run for mayor? Each of these is ascribed a timeline with little room to wiggle. Marry in your early 20s and you’re premature, marry in your 30s and you’ve missed out on life, sorry, and likely will forever be known as a wild partier, no matter what else you achieve.

Fear not, though. Should you choose tradition, you’ll be supported by a volunteer army of nosy-ass paragons of reproductive responsibility with a sworn duty to keep you on track. Answer the question “Who are you dating,” and foster the follow-up, “When will they marry,” which days after the wedding becomes, “I wonder when they’ll have kids,” and, “Will they have another,” and if, God forbid, you find yourself cursed with multiples of the same gender, “I just wish she could have one boy.”

Aurelius would roll his eyes at the degree to which “Live every day like it’s your last” has become clichéd trope, as the tradition-minded who appropriate such fare for living room wall art have no desire for anyone to actually go and live without consequence. Perhaps their worldview is better summed up by, “Hurry the hell up and do your duty; you could die tomorrow.”

We run to tradition because it’s comfortable, it’s easy. Why spend life running from the questions when you could just live in such a way that they’re answered? Pop out three kids and generally the questions stop – even the volunteer army starts to judge if you go much further – other than occasional nagging disappointment in two boys and one girl versus two girls and one boy, but then you just can’t please some people.

But if life exists beyond the realm of comfort, outside the rules of tradition, does that make it necessarily wrong?

I’ll keep you posted.