The 15th of March. Forever tethered to betrayal. It’s the unluckiest of days. Excepting perhaps Friday the 13th. Or Saturday the 14th, truly one of the most memorable movies from my childhood. Actually, I don’t remember much about the movie, but I remember that it was innovative and interesting and ironic. And that it healed the random, insignificant wound that Jason Voorhees represented.
But, I digress…
It’s March. And it’s the 15th. This year, it fell on a Thursday. On this particular Thursday, I have a swollen face. My left cheek is puffy and I have some kind of irritation on my forehead. My bride thinks I have cancer of the face. But I had lunch with a doctor friend today and he says I just have a inflamed salivary gland and maybe a staph infection or an ingrown hair on my forehead. And that the two things are unrelated. Phew.
I’m fortunate that I have gone through most of my life without experiencing the sting of betrayal. To be sure, I’ve done my fair share of betraying, but for the most part, I’ve been spared Brutus’ dagger. Until now.
Today, I am aware that I am Caesar. Betrayed by the man closest to me. Me.
I am Brutus, or at least my body is. My body is betraying me with a swollen face, chronically fragile hamstrings, and a score of extra pounds.
What do you do when you wield the dagger that wounds?
On March 15th, 2012, what do I do with the fact that, at 38, my body doesn’t work the same way it did at 18? What do I do with the fact that, at 38, I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up? What do I do with the fact that, at 38, I’m still afraid of Jason Voorhees, but I’m actually the guy behind the hockey mask?
I may start by putting Saturday the 14th on my Netflix queue.