It’s been little more than a week and a half since I no
longer had the title of “My Hitchhiker’s Year”; which is, to say, for those who
still haven’t read the book – let alone the series – I am not forty two,
anymore.
Like many things I’ve done in the past year, I guess I kind
of threw a lot of effort and faith… funny, I guess I do still exercise some
faith from time to time… into hoping that, I suppose magically, all my work to
turn life around post heart failure would culminate into something awesome.
However, if you’ve read the whole of The Hitchhiker’s Guideto the Galaxy series you know that, in the end, and despite some profound
literary narratives, things don’t go swimmingly for our ragged band. (And,
personally, I think this shows that the stories were forced into an ending. No
disrespect for the late Douglas Adams, of course; these things do happen.)
When my forty second year began, I was gifted my own towel;
complete with appropriate embroidered steam locomotive. And I have carried that
towel everywhere this past year; to and from a job, and eventually through
three states and several cities. It sort of served as a visual reminder… no,
more like a touchstone (A “touch towel”?) to all the great things I wanted to
get started in the following three hundred and sixty five days.
That didn’t turn out. Not even close, really. In fact, my
life has gotten a touch dodgier in the past year than better, I have to admit.
Between the loss of friends and social life, as well as the gutting of my
finances trying to stay afloat in a new town, I have found myself in a fairly
dark shadowed valley, indeed.
Oh, let’s be clear on this point, though; I had the most
amazing adventure. I saw places, ate food, drank drinks, and met some very cool
folks. I started getting into a healthier state of being, and literally found
everything I was looking for in the Pacific Northwest. No, I didn’t learn to
fly, lunch at the end of time, find the girl who didn’t touch the ground, or
use my sandwich making skills to set me up for life, but it was a nice place I
would have loved to call home. If it weren’t for the fact that my Californian
resume made it impossible to find steady work I would have happily stayed.
The challenges facing me, now, having to return back to
Silicon Valley, are impressive. I refuse to believe they’re insurmountable,
though; despite the edge they push me to, daily. But the old axiom – “That
which does not kill you only makes you stronger” – is something I have
experienced personally in my own life. So, assuming I can survive this, I muse
over what kind of bad ass I may become out of this unusually bad spot I’ve
found myself in. And just maybe I can find something worth being a part of;
something worth believing in.
I suppose that throwing all in on a stupid ideal, like
associating a literary gag with an age and a potential, might be one of my
final short comings I may never get over. (But at 5’5” tall isn’t something I’m
likely to have associated with me, huh?) And, to speak a truthsome of it, I
don’t think these silly things are something I’ll ever choose to let go of;
little life themes are more than innocent fun, they can be character builders…
not that I may need more character, depending on who you ask.
But there is a romantic lure to the notion of casting out to
the world armed with little more than a shoulder bag and a towel. (Wits, too, I
suppose. Or wits be damned; meandering the Universe isn’t what one would call
“smart” as much to staying put in a safe-ish place.) And I can’t help, for the
life of me, notice that though I’m forty three, and arguably more lost than I
was a year ago, I can’t seem to quite throw in the towel, yet.
So… here’s me; my thumb still out. And I know where my towel
is.
