Goosebumps

Here I am, sitting at my desk watching an old romantic comedy on my computer, the kind of thing I wouldn’t have been caught dead watching in my youth. The height of uncool, the epitome of maudlin sentimentality, I’d have snorted years ago, adding an exaggerated eye roll for good measure in case the contempt in my voice failed to register with the intended audience. Now, I feel goosebumps clawing up my arms and the sides of my neck like a horde of micro-ninjas, then, reaching my temples, spreading out like tiny explosions. Oh, leave my eyes alone! Age is destroying my immune system against emotional viruses even while it’s aggravating my chronic cynicism. Books, movies, songs, cheesy soap operas, even fleeting half-thoughts that invite themselves into the members-only inner sanctum of my brain. Almost anything can trigger that annoying tingle. And ‘poignant’ has become one of my favorite words because everything feels that way. Why? Is it because, after so many years, life has succeeded in secretly planting a large cache of empathy in me? Is it the vague autumnal feeling that now grips me year-round, fed by a creeping awareness of my dwindling reserves of time, and the attendant sensation that the older I get, the faster time flies? Or maybe I’m in permanent mourning. For lost time, expiring memories, lives not lived, loves not dared. And the transient insignificance of it all. Whatever the reason, I have to make a choice. Let my mind continue to wind down, or grab it by the scruff of its neck and wind it the hell back up! Decision made.