Notes from late at night

Sunday

Back on the little Mexican island after 14 years. Isla Mujeres is still a quiet alternative to Cancun’s white picket fence of hotels across the bay. But Isla has grown busier while I’ve grown older.

Walking the island’s streets you see a mix of faces—dark, pasty white, and everywhere between—but they seem older too. Or maybe it’s just me.

Tuesday

Yes, I’ve become all too aware of my age. The young remind me of what used to be, the older of what is. Everywhere I see myself walking along the beach and strolling the streets. Give or take a few years, plus or minus some pounds, I’m reminded of how I’ve become more an average American. I used to think I looked younger & fitter than most, but here, looking in the mirror of other people, I see myself differently. Not good vacation thoughts.One of my favorite spots, the town cemetery, has changed the most. Now it’s filled nearly wall-to-wall with tombs and memorials. The dangerous tangle of extension cords that used to power lights in the little altars has been replaced with underground wiring (to the dismay of visiting American lawyers?).

No more quiet stroll between gravesites. Instead, a sideways squeeze between rows of turquoise, blue and pink concrete slabs. The passing of time did this. And people dying.

Why am I so blue? Maybe it’s the novel I just finished reading, about lovestruck couples coming in and out of each others’ lives. Bittersweet, with an intensity that I can barely remember. Well, can’t remember at all, to be honest. Is that the problem?

I’ve never loved with a self-destructive passion, but used to be I could imagine it. No more. Now the book’s characters seem to be another race from a planet similar to my own, but clearly not mine. I envy their intense passion that I never had.

I realize that it’s like thinking about that place you always wanted to visit but never did. And now you’re too old, or too timid, or too set in your ways to risk traveling there.

And so.

I’m writing to remember at least that I felt a sense of loss, a pale substitute for the experience but maybe better than nothing. My life is a collection of pretty good routines with an occasional trip somewhere not too scary.

I’ve never been the passionate kind who lights up the room with energy, or draws other in to his dark dramas. I’m the solid one, the friend-not-lover, the one you envy because he seems to have things under control. To a degree, maybe as much as it really can be, maybe that IS me.

I don’t have a bad life, not by a long shot. Sometimes, though, I wonder what it’s like to feel more, to risk it all, to let the chips fall where they may. But I’m afraid to travel to that country.

Instead I’m writing this so that I don’t forget the choices I’ve made and what they cost.

Wednesday

Feeling much less myself lately, like some 3/4 scale version of the person I used to be. With no quick fix in sight, only painful pulling at scabs in hope that there’s healthy body underneath to heal. But there’s no guarantee.

Funny, I’ve come to an expensive corner of the world simply to lick my wounds. I could do this at home for a whole lot less money. Joe’s off to check out the topless babes on the beach, but I’m feeling that’s not part of my life anymore.

Thursday

After a nice dinner & two margaritas our hero has recovered from yesterday’s funk. Feeling much better, even though the issues haven’t changed a bit. Back in the routine.

The island vacation has worked its magic. If that’s what it is.