I Hate Not Being Young In The Age of Trump

My knee is shot. It’s literally throbbing with anger because somehow I assumed that I was still 32. I thought I could run up and down a hill and then round a curved path at increased speed without butchering my kneecaps.

I was wrong.

But, I’ve been wrong about a lot of things lately. I can’t seem to form a single thought without an extended mental review. I take a picture and fall into a slumber filled with images of how much better I would’ve looked a decade ago. My body refuses to relax at midnight and so I stay up — scanning the new releases on Netflix and then end up falling asleep to the testimonies of Sister Wives — imprinted on my phone. The purring of my heat beats out my usual tendencies towards comfort in my own skin.

Now, I have all the time in the world.

I can lay in bed for hours and scan the brilliance of a generation that benefits from what passed me by. I can wonder how I would’ve flourished if only the “onlys” had refused to power me into regret. I can treasure the moments that were stolen under the light of selfishness — and the man who can’t be replaced with the stroke of headshots smiling back at me — as I sit frozen with the disease of middle age.

I hate not being young. But, I really hate suffering from this lifelong status under the reins of President Trump.

The deplorable human who will address a Joint Session of Congress on a day that leaves me in physical and emotional pain. The correlation is dangerously confusing but nevertheless it exists.

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