Thanks for taking my call (Intro, pt. 3)

[ZedWalker]

Part 2 here.

     To feign I'm unreservedly copacetic with this current arrangement and never pine for those good ol' days when diapers were still a choice would be mendacious—I’m not, and I occasionally do.  It's an oft-underappreciated thing, choice, missed only in absence, but also unforgiving when applied imprudently.  The true tragedy of my situation is, when at last the wolf arrived huffing and puffing and blowing down my door, I no longer craved its company.  Frankly, why would I?  Reimagining Mozart, “The music is not in the notes but in the silence between the notes,” i.e. the anticipation of waiting for my next opportunity to wear a diaper used to be as exhilarating, maybe more so even, as the experience itself, but whatever charm diapers possessed largely evaporated once they flipped from recreation to requisite.  The difference between incontinence as a lifestyle or a matter of fact lies solely in the option to quit at any moment and for however long a reprieve is desired—for the day, for a month, forever—yet it’s impossible to grasp the significance of this seemingly simple difference wilst the option exists.  I’m not crying over spilled milk, either, so to be clear: Just as blame for my disorder rests not on any apparent physiological or neurogenic deficiency, neither do I suffer one presently that might foil any attempt to potty-train myself de integro and thereby break free—yet again, only older and wiser (by a lot and, well…less than alot, respectively, relative to prior efforts) now to appreciate the benefits of sticking with it for good this time—of this dubious Depend®ence on diapers.  At least, that’s what I tell myself.

     But who am I fooling?  Setting aside asertions I deplore being incontinent, I still love diapers and the same naughty, nervous excitement—like pulling the lever on a slot machine despite knowing full well you're pissing away the kids' college money—I felt thirtysome years ago with the very first diaper I wore on a whim bubbles in my belly with each one I’ve taped on since.  Admittedly, some of the shimmer has tarnished compared to when the experience was novel, and certainly I'd prefer diapers under my terms and according to my schedule, but having no say in the matter is also queerly liberating sometimes, so while I grouse about losing control on one hand, the other is reticent to try wresting it back.  Why?  I’m drawn to the motto of Nénette and Rintintin: Avec nous rien à craindre—"With us, you have nothing to fear”—or, more accurately, the implicit converse postulate applies—my fear that without them I have nothing.  Or is the concern I wouldn't miss them a bit?  Indeed, to have my entire history with diapers proven to be nothing but a huge waste of time and energy would verily leave me crestfallen.  It’s a sad commentary, but diapers to varying degrees have been one of few constants throughout my life, so at my own peril would I discount out of hand the emotional attachment that clearly still resonates.  All the same, the distinction is moot since the only reliable way to determine unequivocally the value of something is to remove it from your life and assess whether you're better off or worse without, but as things stand I’m not ready to go there and, professes your humble scribe with a wry smile, I'm okay with that for the time being.  J'y suis, j'y reste.  I guess that, in a nutshell, is the real problem—not incontinence or diapers but ambivalence—and, to paraphrase Einstein, I cannot understand this problem with the same thinking used when I created it, so until I'm prepared to change my thinking about diapers I can't truly know what to think about diapers; meanwhile, when there's one needing changing every couple hours serving as a indelibly constant reminder, it's hard not thinking about 'em!  Hic impedimentum.

     So there you have it—the mise-en-scène yanking back the curtain for sunlight to shine into dark corners of my life that, given my druthers, would remain forever veiled in secrecy, and it turns out the hidden man controlling this wizard is a petulant five-year-old brat who rues more than appreciates the day he was potty-trained.  Mutato nomine de te fabula narratur?  Before parting company today, I ought to share a little about me that isn't diaper-related since the whole point of this discourse is to formally introduce myself to the forum.  I’m 46 years old, happily single, and a diehard St. Louis Cardinals fan who presently resides far from my beloved 'birds in the Four Corners region of these Divided States of America, sharing hearth and home with a veritable menagerie of fur, fins and feathers within the walls and without, including the aforementioned Squirrel—who, sorry to say, is in fact grounded for life.  Subsequent to college I hung my shingle on Wall Street, toiling fourteen lugubrious years as an underappreciated quant until the crash of 2008 mercifully forced me into semi-retirement; my days are now more agreeably occupied volunteering at a local animal shelter and—my childhood dream job—as a firefighter/paramedic, with the occasional substitute teaching gig thrown in for spice, much to those high schoolers’ consternation.  Avocationally, I enjoy bouldering; hiking and camping; equestrian; skiing (downhill and cross-country) and snowboarding; beer league hockey; marksmanship (mainly He-Man 3-gun and F-class); “Huntin’, Fishin’ and Lovin’ Every Day”; composing and playing music (I noodle around on a plethora of instruments but trained classically on violin and piano—hence the once-irksome nickname Schroeder—beginning when I was in Pampers® the first time, which makes music my other life constant); and continually battling the elements to keep the antediluvian homestead from weathering away to dust right before my eyes—believe me, in this brutal clime, it's a full-time job all by itself!  And now that I've cataloged the others, it appears diapers are still one divertissement among many.  Intriguing, and I'm not sure how to assimilate that nugget into the bigger picture.  Hmm.  Guess it's back to Freud’s couch for me.

     Alright, that about covers it, and I've wasted enough time on this.  (Not apologizing, by the way, unctuously or otherwise; it was mine to waste first!)  I don’t know about you but I definitely need to catch my breath!  I do apologize for bloviating when pithiness would've sufficed in this circumstance, but blame furor scribindi—I apparently hold as much control over it as I do my bladder!  Lo and behold, another mouse feed into a monster.  All the same, it does feel good finally getting this  off my chest, so in closing, thank you for indulging me, goodnight and drive home safe.  Til we meet again, friends, stay swaddled and soaked.