The Bloody Doors Off

This is gonna be a tough post to write. Mostly because it’s already played out in my head, in such a way that is narratively disjointed yet made perfect sense in my head.

It started as I was walking Auggie in the Distillery.

Okay, a little background.

While most people are transitioning to more weather-appropriate apparel, I choose to dig in my heels. I’m still wearing my cargo shorts and Hawaiian shirts. Not like I have to dress up to go into the office. But this has become an act of defiance. “November is coming”, the papers say. “But not yet,” I growl back.

So I’m walking Auggie past Biltmore and they’ve got a pumpkin patch out front, selling the gourds for $15. And it triggers a memory of trick or treating when I was a kid. We turn down one side street, anchored by The Oyster Bar. They have heated lamps mounted outside for comfortable dining on a chilly night. And that really resonates. Not the lamps, but what they produce.

I stare at the orange coils. Imagine the radiating heat, and how it would feel on my face.

I remember my last apartment. It was heated by gas (getting the fucking account turned over to my name after I kicked out my first roommate, yeah that was fun) and there was a radiator against the south wall in the living room. My couch sat opposite. The ottoman was the favourite lying place of the cats in the wintertime. Every time it clicked on, I’d find myself standing in front of it, basking in the warmth.

And that reminds me of my childhood.

I can feel the wicker laundry basket (sadly, it is painted a light shade of pink, and has two horizontal blow stripes) pressed against my back as my right side leans into the bedroom wall. My pyjamas are the kind with cuffs around the ankles, so only my feet ever show. I’m sitting next to the heating vent because moments earlier, I heard the furnace roar to life. Every night, after I’m tucked into bed. I can’t sleep without first holding my feet over the grate and seeing how long I can withstand the increasing temperature. The best room in the house was the master bedroom; it sat directly over the furnace itself and offered the most air pressure. In the middle of the night I would sneak in and prop myself against the cold, metallic desk, and bask in its embrace.

Yes, I’m weird. I own it. Tell me you don’t have similar memories.

And that was the problem. The memory kept getting interrupted. And I got increasingly frustrated that I continually derailed this trip down memory lane.

So I had to ask myself why I was so intent on reliving these particular memories.

“Because I wanna be a kid again,” I snapped back.

Not because I want a do over. I am very happy with where I am, and have begun appreciating the journey I’ve taken. Kinda like How I Met Your Mother, only funny.

(The blogger would like to state, for the record, that he actually liked HIMYM, but hated the way they wrapped up the series.)

And why the hell would I put myself through puberty a second time?

(Oh gods, Pat Sajak just ripped off a joke from Carl Reiner. For shame.)

So why would I blurt out something like that?

Yes, I said it out loud. Like you’ve never done that.

I think it has to do with the feeling the memories evoked.

Safe.

Warm.

Maybe it’s time to put away the khakis until next summer.