I escaped over the past few months. I slipped off the restraints and ran naked into the night.
Ok that sounds a lot more poetic than it actually was. I packed and drove to the airport. Then I came back, only I had a bunch of shit to do and ya … Christmas . . .
Anyway I am sure many of you are lying on your death beds waiting for some word that I have returned so consider yourself worded. I have returned.
Running away used to be fun. First there was that panic in the adults voice if you disappeared because they were still so sleep deprived and possibly on post natal drugs, that they believed you were some angelic being that transformed their life into little shimmering lights of meaning. Of course I am talking pre-teething and pre-two-year-old.
Then you hit the sweet spot of hours spent playing hide and seek and developing it into a game of real skill and hoping to be the last one found so you could hide again and also forever lord it over your brother that you could hide better than him. We were so easily convinced we were awesome back then.
Eventually you got to where you used those skills to sneak away in the middle of the night to try out all the things you learned in sex ed. Again, the object was not to be found, but you almost always were because parents had a beam that shot out of their noses that tracked you. They don’t have that anymore because technology has rendered the nose tracking beam useless .. like the appendix. Now no-one knows what that beam is for and lots of people get operated on because doctors think it interferes with sunshine making it to your ass and a lot of people were complaining that their cult following is not what it used to be.
Then after you had kids who were past teething and you had experienced the two year old in all their splendifourous glory, you tried to hide from your kids so you could just have a moment to yourself .. . to maybe pee without an audience. I got so I could handle my own kids wandering in to the bathroom but drew the line at the neighbourhood kids following mine in and gathering around the toilet to inform me that “Crystal and Travis want to know if they can have a popsicle.” (ever notice how only after you give one to Crystal and Travis, it comes up that your child wanted one too?)
And then something strange happens. You aren’t even trying to hide . . . and no-one can find you. No-one is even looking for you, not even when you are standing right in front of them. The whole euphoria of hiding well only happens when you put effort into it, not when you just wake up in the morning and walk out into the kitchen and no-one can “find” you. For some reason that feels oddly hurtful.
Life is about never having the skills you need when they would be awesome. You get everything cool when it no longer matters. Like now I could eat all the ice cream I want, any flavour, any time, all day if I wanted to. Except now I hate ice cream. No-one tells you that when your parents tell you to “not right now, wait a bit,” before you can have it, they mean if you wait long enough, you won’t even want it. How is that fair? I never got to just eat ice cream with wild abandon and feel amazeballs.
So ya, I accept that I have finally succeeded at being the best hider in the world. I have successfully been able to run away from the attention and view of my own family and friends. I have to believe that, otherwise the only other possible explanation is that they have all gone blind, their tongues were taken in some violent crime they protected me from by never telling me about it, and their hands have fallen off so they can no longer type or hold a phone.
That and they no longer love me. Or they never did.
So how was your Christmas? I have a whole bunch of mouldy Christmas cookies in the jar if you wanna drop by. Ignore the bodies on the roof. I got a bit depressed at Christmas and you know how they say that anger can be a sign of depression? Santa, two or three of the elves, and eight of the reindeer paid the price.