I'm Dreaming of a Black Christmas - Lewis Black [20]
But I always show up. They could charge me admission and a two-drink minimum and I’d show up.
Enough with the self-pity, soup’s on. I must prepare for the day.
I must shower and shave.
I like the shower, but I love the tub. Is that too personal for you? Sometimes I like to share, and it’s not always about being angry. So fuck you. I have something personal to impart.
When I first moved to New York City a bath was the only entertainment I could afford. I’d soak in the tub for hours while reading a book. One of the great joys of my life was reading Stephen King’s The Shining while marinating myself into prunedom. Even in my thirties, that book scared the shit out of me. Though maybe being naked, and in the tub, and leaving my machete in my other pants had something to do with it, too.
A bath is quiet and calming, not like a shower. A shower is one scalding bitch-slap into reality. When I shower, I try to overcome the depression that arises when I see the few scattered hairs from my head on my hands after I have shampooed and conditioned. Ever so slowly, I have watched my hairline recede and my forehead become more pronounced, like waves pulling away from the beach at low tide, so that soon I will be able to rent the space on my head as signage for hair retrieval products. It’s amazing how one can distract oneself from being depressed about one thing by whipping up a good solid depression about something else. Hair loss is much less depressing than feeling alone. Then again, it does remind me that I’m getting old and with that the prospect of marriage and children are fading along with my chances of having hair like my uncle Julie, who when he passed away at seventy-nine had a full head of brown hair and no gray in sight. Genetics, my ass. Many people have said to me that I’m still young enough to have children, and while that may be true biologically, I don’t think it makes it right.
As I write this, I’m sixty-one. People say I look great for my age. They are probably being kind. Or maybe they think I’m pregnant. I like to think so. It’s nicer than thinking you’re fat. I believe I am carrying a Baby Lewie in my belly. Sadly you can’t give birth to your inner child. So, first off, I have to find someone I can fall in love with, and vice versa, who can deal with a lifestyle in which I’m home only half the time, and when I’m there she has to deal with unusual habits that have become solidly ingrained through years of living by myself. Like the fact that I spend a part of each day walking around naked. Like I am now, since I got out of the shower. Yes, I walk around naked a lot. Where else can you do that, except in the comfort of your own home?
Unless you’re a nudist. I am not a nudist. I don’t like being naked outdoors. Too many bugs. And if you brush up against the wrong leaf, you can be scarred for life.
And she’s going to have to be someone whom I want to have children with, and she is going to have to be of child-bearing age. That means that she will have to be significantly younger than I am. This leaves one open to all sorts of snide, judgmental asides from family friends and the disapproving public. Even though I tend to ignore being judged, I know that I don’t like it. Especially by the people who think everyone should be married and have children so that their existence is validated. Nobody should have to stand and judge me for the actions in my personal life. As long as they’re legal, private, and respectful of other people, fuck them. And besides, I’ve got a whole chorus of voices in my head that sit in judgment of me.
The other problem is that this hypothetical woman is going to have to want to have my child even after she’s heard about the drugs I’ve taken and the, uh, self-indulgent life I’ve led. That is going to take a real leap of faith on her part for her to believe that