I was lying in the tub the other morning, trying not to contemplate the ever increasing amount of water I displace, when I chanced to look up at the bathroom ceiling. Believe me, this was the best of my chance-looking options.
And glancing at that ceiling I remembered as a young boy fantasizing about walking on ceilings in general, as if this would be the greatest of supernatural powers: to look at the world anew all upside and excitingly foreign. In my youth I could imagine happy day after day strolling along the ceilings of the family home, surprising my sister, freaking out the mail-man, finding out what all that stuff was that my mom put on top of the refrigerator.
But looking up that ceiling as an adult the other morning, from the self-esteem crushing waters of my bath, all I could imagine were the smoke detectors and light fixtures I would be stubbing my toes on; I thought about tripping over the tops of doorways as I gracelessly entered rooms. What sort of exciting power was that? Floors were made to be walked on, ceiling were made to be looked at suspiciously, scanning for the tell-tale signs that the upstairs neighbors have overflowed their kitchen sink again.
And I don’t even want to see the stuff I keep on the top of my refrigerator—that’s exactly why I keep it on the top of the refrigerator in the first place.
So, after the bathwater had grown sufficiently cold around me, I shaved and dressed and walked upon all the floors and sidewalks between home and the dingy basement office I work in. Which, I might add, has a drop ceiling that could never support my weight.
And thus another dream of youth has died.
Which inevitably brings to mind Lionel Richie’s 1986 hit …?
Lionel Richie also makes me think of my lost youth.