scary age

i think i have a new scary age. for those unfamiliar with the concept of a scary age, allow me to explain. it's that age at which you hope to have everything significant in your life if not accomplished, then at least humming along smoothly. for most of my teen years and into my twenties, 27 was my scary age. with the passing of my 27th birthday, i paused, took stock, and readjusted my scary age to 34. it seemed a sensible scary age -- not close enough to leave me with a feeling of unabated dread, but not far enough away that i could blissfully put off doing all of those things that i said i would do "one day" -- in fact, i recently confided to G, with full sincerity, that i was more than okay with my new scary age ...

until this morning.

as many of you know, today is my 29th birthday, and while i have postponed festivities until i return from my research trip to england, i was looking forward to some quiet celebrations today, beginning with a beautiful morning out on the water. i was going out sculling in a double with jane -- the water was calm, the clouds in the sky were a lush pink from the rays of the rising sun, and i felt myself slowly falling into the rhythm of the sculling stroke, something i've been struggling with the past few weeks. how great would it be, i thought to myself, if this was the morning when it all came together -- when my leading left arm buried the blade at just the right height, when the pressure on both sculls was equal enough to keep us from turning in giant circles, when our four oars fell into the water at the catch in perfect unison, making that satisfying swirling splash sound that meant we were now ready to take the next stroke. what a fantastic birthday present.

i suppose if i hadn't had my head quite so far up my own a**, i would have had a better sense of just how quickly things were coming apart at the seams. with a speed and smoothness i don't think i'll ever get used to, our shell flipped and jane and i found our selves struggling first to detach our feet from our tie in shoes, and thus not get pulled under, and then to hoist ourselves over the hull of the flipped shell, belly down, like a couple of beached whales (her simile, not mine). as i lay there on my belly waiting for leslie to zoom over in her coachboat and tow us back to the rowing club dock and the impending humiliation that would follow, jane valiantly dove into the cataraqui river in an attempt to retrieve her rowing jacket, in the pocket of which were her rapidly sinking car keys. i pushed my sunglasses up on my nose and tried to bravely keep myself from crying. i didn't succeed. after climbing into leslie's coachboat (and whacking my left shin against the still blades of the propeller -- that's going to be one attractive bruise!) and helping jane to hoist the flipped shell perpendicular over the bow of the coachboat, i sulked down in a wet, miserable ball and sniffled my way through the return trip. though i am fully aware of the way in which i often invest such events with far too much symbolic significance, i couldn't help but hear that ominous voice of doom laugh a little too much like orson wells while saying "your scary age is here".

an angry drive through the countryside beyond the rowing club, a long, hot, antibacterial soap-filled shower, and a birthday breakfast with good friends have all worked to somewhat quell my inner orson, however i still couldn't resist googling "rowing flip" on youtube in order to find this video.