I thought by now, at this point in my life, when I am, by almost any measure, an adult, that I would be untying my shoes before kicking them off. This always bothered my mother, and she yelled at me frequently about it, upset by the irresponsibility and improperness of the action, the indifference to taking care of my things, and I thought somehow eventually I would change, grow out of the behavior, and become more careful and concerned, but I haven’t.
I thought by now I would know more than I do about how to buy a car, negotiate a loan, pick out fruit, that I would know the names of tools and trees. I thought I would not only know whether Monaco was a city or a country, but I would have passed through it, speaking whatever language they speak, if not fluently, at least competently, on my way to other places, ones where all the necessary arrangements would be taken care of and ones where absolutely no arrangements had been made and I calmly and confidently improvised.
I thought by now I would no longer be nervous walking into a new bar or restaurant, meeting people, or asking for help. I thought the phobias and fears and tics, like my dislike of the phone, would lessen rather than increase, that I’d be more generous, more empathetic, more understanding, that I would know who to tip and how much.
I thought by now I would have developed the patience to wait that last ten seconds for the microwave to finish. I would know where the time went and the water and the elasticity of flesh and friendship. I thought I would finally be comfortable in my body, and I thought my body would stop changing so much. I thought by now I would know why toast doesn’t just taste like heated bread, and I would know, if not exactly, at least pretty accurately, what I had been doing with my life and what I was doing and what I was going to do.
I thought by now I would know something. I thought by now I would know.