Who among us has not done a foolish thing—so long as no one dies or goes bankrupt –it usually all comes out fine in the wash.
The most foolish thing I did recently was print copies of my memoir—the wild years in the Kingdom of Thailand—and give it to my kids.
Of course, there were a few things I didn’t write in that book. There are some things from those days that I can hardly admit in my mind, let alone put them on a page. But there’s still plenty of foolish things which I hope my children, now in their teens, don’t try to replicate.
The hundred million times I rode on motorcycles—side-saddle. The one-night stands. Bribing police at roadblocks. Dancing drunk on tables; which got me fired. Buying beer and condoms in front of one of my students. Kayaking in snake-infested mangrove forests. And about fifty more pages of adventures that I never want them to repeat. Or at least if they do—tell me long after it’s over.
My foolish twenties were a response to my extremely cautious teens. I lived precariously in that decade though not due to my own negligence but that of my mother’s, who all but disappeared from my life save for money in the bank and the occasional week at home.
When other kids were sneaking out, I had no one to sneak out from. When other kids planned parties when their parents went out of town for the weekend, I forbid people from coming to my house when they knew my mother had just left. When I did have friends over, and they started to get a little rambunctious—I cleaned up behind them and scolded them until they stopped and acted like the reasonable people I believed them to be.
I took care of the money. Paid the bills. Mowed the yard. Let the dogs out and the cats in.
By the time I was in my twenties - I was ready to be young and foolish before the time passed and I would be old and foolish. I never liked old and foolish, I’d seen it sometimes at the LiquorDome in Halifax—more mature women vamping it up and lounging on the arm or lap of young men who were half their age.
There was one lady I remember well. She was a fixture in one area of the LiquorDome and she was there most weekends but not usually in the crush near the dance floor. She’d be upstairs, near the bar, handy the pool tables. She had big hair, as you could in the early nineties- all the 80s hairspray had not yet been completely consumed-and she wore some of the first spandex pants I’d ever seen. Looking back now I realize they might have been hotpants from the 70s which would have been her rightful time frame.
Skin-tight, black, shiny pants that had a full body, in colour, drawing of Mickey Mouse on the outer thigh of one leg. That’s what she commonly wore. I don’t remember the shirts as the pants were so fetching.
She was a regular and though she tried, I never saw her leave the bar with anyone. Us young folks watched her with a mix of scorn and admiration. Wasn’t she too old for this shit? Wasn’t it great that she didn’t give a fuck what we thought?
The older I get, the more I realize how foolish I was to roll my eyes and share snarky glances with my friends when I saw the lady. If you're 40 and you want to go out wearing Mickey Mouse hotpants and think that’ll pull a stud from the bar some night—power to you.
I did other foolish things then too. I could not take it when guys were too nice to me. I guess it was a bit of a creep-factor when it came to some of them—but others were just genuinely nice and fumbling through trying to express an attraction through imprecise words and hormones.
I passed up so many princes. Sad to say it’s mostly true—at least in your twenties; nice guys finish last.
There was the guy from The Mira who invited me back to his place after a Northern Pikes concert and as a foolish move, I went. Nothing happened. Nice guy.
There was my friend from high school who I knew didn’t want to be just friends. I gave him a week of being my boyfriend but ended it when he showed up at my house with flowers. He had seen someone outside working in their garden and commented on how lovely the flowers were and asked if he could have some for his girlfriend—nice guy, they gave him a tremendous bouquet. I kicked him to the curb.
Somehow, we’re still friends—which only proves what a nice guy he is. I often wondered how foolish I was to leave these guys in the dust. Where would I be now if I hadn’t? I’m satisfied in this life—but those are untravelled roads that I suspect would have been good trips.
And then there was my first long-term relationship. Made some beginner mistakes in that one. Faults on both sides but some great times—both of us foolishly took for granted the good thing that we had until it was no longer good.
For many years after I thought, foolishly, that my boyfriends should be a listening post for all my emotional crises—I‘ve learned running, psychologists and massage therapy are the correct vessels for such concerns and stress.
And then there was Italy—I accepted a ride from a stranger on an island I did not know, on a road where I’d seen no other pedestrians or vehicles. Foolish but fun; luckily. Giovanni took me all over the island, down the steep hills and shallow stairways, through one small village to another, the crest of a hill overlooking the nude beach, the ruins of an ancient empire, and home to the Villa where I was staying for a few days. We communicated by sign language as neither could speak the other’s language and it was a day the likes of which kicks off romance novels. But that was where it ended, at the beginning.
He did invite me, through our limited communication skills, to meet him at the dance club that night, but I didn’t go. I was cautious in all the most foolish ways.
As I get older, the opportunities for foolishness have decreased. I’m searching for a few right now. But I’ve mostly passed the baton to my children, who are entering their peak foolish phase.
Be foolish, be enthusiastic; I’m here to catch you.
