The bell whirred again as he rang off. He came in quickly and bumped against Lenehan who was struggling up with the second tissue.
—Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan said, clutching him for an instant and making a grimace.
—My fault, Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are you hurt? I’m in a hurry.
—Knee, Lenehan said.
He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee:
—The accumulation of the anno Domini.
Gentlest of Readers,
I need not tell you that time waits for no man. Beginning to form a groove in my thirties, I have been thinking about what has changed for me over the last decade or so.
I first noticed a change in sentiment towards travel in my late twenties. Before that, every city I visited held the charm of a potential place to live. It used to cross my mind that I could spend my time split across two continents – now I know that due to tax law, gym memberships, dealing with different mobile phone numbers…the present writer would find this too much to bear, and his addled brains would capitulate.
That intrepid feeling has now passed, and has been replaced by a strange and comforting desire for stability. Even now, when abroad (I do still like to travel), a part of me fantasises about being home, about what I will do in the gym or on the bike when I return, or I think about visiting my parents’ place or what has been happening with my housemates.
Simpler things like this seem to give me more pleasure. On the other side, my tolerance for any sort of bureaucracy or red tape or hassle of any description has decreased exponentially. To illustrate, a few of my friends are meeting soon, including three of whom I have not seen in a very long time. Yet, they chose a meeting point which is very far away for yours truly. And I, not possessed of a car (for reasons that may merit another post) could not reasonably get there any quicker than about six hours on public transport. That’s a no for me, even though I do genuinely make a big effort to stay in touch with people.
I want to keep the routine going, and I don’t want to spend large swathes of time on buses or trains, only to repeat the same thing the next day. I am ruthless with who I will meet or with what activities I will agree to do. In fairness, I do also seek adventures, and try new things, but only in a controlled fashion. Tellingly, an attractive woman contacted me late at night recently, and I declined to meet her (this might be illustrative).
In other respects, I have become more impulsive and less likely to ruminate. I am likely to buy something I perceive as necessary or enjoyable, rather than waiting weeks or months to see if I can justify it. In short, I know what I want, and I am happy to pay for it. This is borne out by the data – I will not make this tedious by showing you a graph of my expenditure (or will I?), but rest assured, it is going up.
In many areas of my life, I have become interested in employing the minimum effective dose. A story from a recent visit to the gym may prove a good example:
The present writer entered the gym. Seeing somebody deadlifting, I recalled vaguely that this used to be my favourite lift, and strongest. Once, a man in the gym congratulated me on my impressive strength, while doing a deadlift. The hazy memory was enough to compel me to action. I loaded up the bar and performed out a few sets. Halfway through the last couple of sets, having meditated on the drawn out process of removing the clips, adding plates to the bar after every set, reinserting the clips, it occurred to me that the whole affair was…a lot of hassle for minimal benefit.
The next time, I returned to simply using hamstring and glute machines. Are they as effective? Maybe not (or maybe they are). But they sure are quicker and easier to use. I am on a hassle-free kick. Similarly, if I am going somewhere, and it is raining, and the bus is too far away, and I am acknowledging that I do not like cycling in the rain, then I will…get a taxi. The discerning reader might not see this as interesting, but the present writer would have flagellated himself over that €10. Now, the taxi is called, and without a second thought, before or after, and do you know what I am going to tell you? I will get it home, too.
My reign of convenience also extends to travel. The thought of a flight with a lay-over or any sort of hassle getting to and from airports or any sort of dragging of luggage is sufficient to chill the marrow of my rapidly demineralising bones. And as for accommodation – will I stay in a hostel? God no. Previously, in my vigorous youth, I used to love hostels, both because they were cheap and because there was the prospect of meeting new people. My enjoyment of these tapered off gradually, and then suddenly.
First, there was the fact that, occasionally, somebody would be snoring or having sex in a mixed dorm. A minor inconvenience, to be sure, for the twenty one year old traveller. Then, there was the general fear of being robbed, of leaving my stuff by my bed and getting pillaged. Therefore, everywhere I went, I went with sweaty backpack containing a laptop and (later) a camera, pounding the pavements and looking like an obvious tourist.
Discerning readers will point out that most dorms have lockers. This is true, most, but not all. And I never went in for locks, possibly due to a fear of losing the key, if I am honest.
Graduating from dormitories to the private room did not bring an end to my difficulties. I began to notice that those in the common room (with whom I had told myself I wanted to socialise) were often nineteen year olds who were liable to pester one with inanities. The final nail in the coffin arrived in Poland when, maturely, staying in my single room in a hostel, the noise from the nearby bar was too much, the quality of the room too bad – never again, I said. And that time, I meant it.
A girl I met last week told me about how, having gotten the bus to a strange town and, possessing no return ticket, nor her wallet, the only way back was to find coins for a return fare. Alas, she had none, so she turned it into a fun game of looking at the ground until she found the coins (fair play to her, she found them).
The present writer would have found this conceivable some years ago. Now, I would be in a taxi quicker than you can say Jack Robinson.
That is due, as Lenehan says, to the accumulation of the anno Domini. Now, although not the biggest Yeats fan (although I have quoted him before), I will leave you an image from WB:
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.
You can also support me by clicking on this affiliate link for the Pathless Path Community. This community has been a valuable resource that has helped me to become creatively fulfilled, as well as to find alternative ways to write and create in a sustainable and meaningful way.