In Between Days

“I’m a rock star. I’m not supposed to do dishes!”

These are strange, strenuous, and superlative days.

One minute finds me coordinating a roomful of musicians, the next. I’m marvelling at the stupendous dicing abilities of a new pairing knife.

‘Man, that’s the best knife ever!’ I think.

One minute finds me tossing back pints in a raucous downtown dive with Pete Yorn, the next, I’m getting misty eyed watching a four-year-old’s blissful yawn.

‘Aaaaaw,’ I think.

Or, there are moments like this one when — so distracted am I by the plane reservations, car services, vows, cuff links, collars, cues, seating arrangements, blogs posts, songs, videos, redesigns, relaunches, recallibrations and reruns — that I end up one subway stop too far in Astoria, Queens.

‘Ten days,’ I think.

Ten days. Which explains why my left eye is twitching, my excema is itching, and every song that comes on my iPod sounds customized for each melodramatic moment. And it explains why the tension between who I am and who I thought I’d be feels more palpable than ever.

It’s always been significant.

These days, I want more than credit for holding down my job, doing the laundry, wiping the counter, grocery shopping or anything more than drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and writing songs. I want bonus points. I want gold stars. A plaque.

These days, I resist the suburban ideal ever as I jog towards it. I scoff at the suit as I trudge towards the corporate tower.  I roll my eyes at luxury condo ads in magazines my doorman sorts.

I am becoming the very thing I was rebelling against.

And yet… And yet…

And yet I’m not sure I was ever either of those things to begin with.

Maybe there is no rebellion. And maybe there isn’t anything to rebel against. Maybe — and I’m banking on this — maybe there’s a space in between.

That’s where I’m headed.