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Two Out of Three Ain’t Midlife

It doesn’t make any sense. The song is so drippy with emotion, so waterlogged with melodrama that we, as citizens of the 21st century, should not fall for it. We should not succumb. We should not pull out the ripcord and float down to that thick, syrupy place that Meatloaf Aday (yes, that’s his surname) bakes up for us. The place I am referring to? Teenage lust/love/eternal devotion.

What is it? It does not make any sense, all this high drama, all this teenage overemphasis on the drain clogging seriousness of the circling feelings; he sings, “But you’ve been cold to me so long, I’m cryin’ icicles instead of tears.” Uh huh.

So why do we, as residents of adulthood, in our twenties, or thirties, or, even more apropos, our forties pause when we hear those first piano chords…why do we not turn the dial, crank on that car radio tuner so hard that Ludacris does a little hip-hop fidget in midstep, that Whitney caterwauls her Houston all the way to Dallas, why don’t we spin that radio so far away from the overwrought drama that Meatloaf conjures that we never have to think of shedding a drunken tear at another wedding ever again….ever, dammit! Why?

Because…

Because we, as humans can recall what it meant to be so fucking alive and in tune to every single emotion, every single hormone, every single, call to lust, call to hate, call to fight, call to succumb before the rules and regulations of a society that we were just learning the parameters of that who was to blame us for going off the deepend once in a while? Who told us that life goes on beyond a relationship ending? Who counseled us that despite the fact that parents, teachers, governments all preached no drugs…they all did them, why cant we? Far be it from us, as teenaged hormone carrying vessels, to question the hypocrisies of our parents when our entire being, our very lifeblood existed to fuck, existed to get fucked and existed to get fucked up…in that order.

“Well there’s only one girl that I will ever love/
And that was so many year-ears ago/
And though I know I’ll never get her out of my heart/
She never loved me back, ooh-ooh I know/”

And that is the self-righteous, drunken, wasted inebriated logic of it all…she never loved me back, oooh, I know. There it is. Welcome to North America where our pop icons breed this kind of self-pitying romance. Let’s just roll in it for awhile, shall we, Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of intense heartache, I shall fear no simple emotion. I shall lay down and rub my body and soul in the shit of failed romance, I shall anoint my head in the oils of attempted suicide and revel in the attention such an act derives.

Ah, teenagers. Ah to feel that much for one person again…one other soul who “gets” you so well, they would swear they will be with you forever.

Forever.

“And though I pleaded and I begged her not to walk out that door
She packed her bags and turned right away-ay-ay”

Guest Author Ronan