The Adventures of Expatboy

When I was a wee lad back in Scotland, este QC, I used to have these afternoons that would never end. I would sit on the sidewalk in front of the Sababan’s house. The street was strewn with potholes, empty tin cans, "touching ball" lines drawn with the edges of shattered flower pots, and steaming piles of dog feces. And me, wearing t-shirts and shorts that were too big, and no underwear, would watch the clouds and imagine animal shapes.

This would go on, seemingly forever, until my spinster aunt would call me back to the house, which was just on the other side of the street, for merienda. That could basically consist of ice candy, which she made herself with orange juice, or alternately buko juice. I would bring some for my friends, who would attempt to pay me 5c or 10c, but my aunt and I would always give them away for free. Then I would go biking, for miles and miles. To the school, to the church, to the Radio Veritas transmitter, to La Mesa Dam, to the creek where upstream squatters would wash their clothes and do their business (it was only later that I realized why being downstream was not so good). Biking, I would pretend that I was flying, and sometimes I did, when I hit potholes and flew to the ground.

The whole time I was wishing, wishing for something to happen. Something new, something not boring. Something that would transport me to the next day without me noticing.

Nowadays I never have time for anything. I got DVDs to watch that are severely backlogged. Magazines from 2003 that still await to be read. Shows recorded on TiVo. Chores to do. A blog to write. Shopping, lakwatsa, la mierda. Relatives to visit.

I miss being bored.

I wonder if kids nowadays get to be bored. With 1000 channels on cable, video games, the internet, they can play all they want, and collapse exhausted but still not exhausting everything there was to do. I wonder if I was lucky, growing up in the 70’s. Maybe now, in the 21st century, being bored has become a luxury.

I was browsing through my friends’ Friendster profiles recently, and one of them went like this:

"I feel that I have reached all the goals I have set for myself since I
graduated college. A beautiful marriage, a wonderful child, a
successful career, a dream car, and a perfect home."

At first blush, this profile made me feel like a bum lying on my sofa, but then.. not to put down someone else’s goals, but isn’t a fulfilling life more than nice sentences on a resume, or owning things?

To paraphrase "Rent", what is the measure of a life?

Everyone has different yardsticks. Some measure success and happiness based on what car they drive; how high up the corporate or social ladder they have climbed; their zip code; the tags on the clothes on their backs; the places they have traveled to; the brand of shoes on their feet; how many women they have f*cked - or combinations of these.

When all is said and done, when you die, isn’t it ultimately about how you have impacted the lives of those who you love? Parents, siblings, offspring, nieces and nephews, good friends. Why be influenced by the opinions of people whom you don’t care about really?

"Rent" was right - the measure of a life IS love.