The Death of Me

Remember that old expression, “You’re going to be the death of me”?

You may not. You may have been better behaved as a child than I was. As I recall, it was usually spoken to me by an older relative. I never took it too seriously. In fact, I thought it was vaguely flattering, an implicit acknowledgement that I was too active, and by extension, too clever, for them to keep up. By merely trying they might collapse in exhaustion. Now that I think about it, that might have been my strategy. Not an actual collapse by my wardens, but at least a resigned relaxation of surveillance.

Well, now that strategy is being turned against me. I’m the sluggish old fogey. My tormentors aren’t my children or nephews, they are zealots pursuing their mad objectives as hyperactively as I pursued minor delinquencies.

They’re going to trash my neighborhood, but not with eggs, water balloons and toilet paper. They’re armed cultural vigilantes. It’s as if my boyhood friends and I weren’t satisfied with occasional freedom to do our private mischief but wanted to terrorize our parents and grandparents into never coming out of the house.

Need and abortion? Better not Google that. Someone is watching. Want to go to the corner grocery? Better keep an eye out along the way to make sure no one is carrying, which of course is going to be tough if their piece is tucked into their waistband and concealed by their shirt.

Want to call the cops for protection? Sorry, too late. The Supreme Court says it’s all perfectly fine. Like your favorite outrageous uncle might say “boys will be boys” when someone gets all wet from your assault with a hose. Except this time what is being shot is bullets and what we are getting wet with is blood.

It’s enough to make you just want to give up and stay inside. Of course, if we do that, we’ll never be safe to go out again. It will have been the death of us.