Capitulate Now: Issue 68
On the way to pick up the kids from school, I investigated my zits in the rearview mirror. I had been experiencing a strange breakout on my jaw and neck, possibly because I had stopped using my prescription tretinoin in that area (I’d heard a podcast host say that retinol products are useless on, maybe even detrimental to, the skin on your neck, for anti-aging purposes anyway. “Seems legit,” I’d thought to myself, “I’ll immediately change my skincare routine”). So there I was, in the unforgiving light of day, stopped at an intersection, realizing that the greenish primer I’d layered with some concealer to “color correct” my blemishes was not exactly working, just as it had not exactly worked the last time I’d attempted this scheme. The area under my chin, a part of my person I am generally not trying to call any extra attention to, had a sickly kind of pallor to it.
Elsewhere, I was trying another tactic: Zit stickers. I poked at one sticker, like pressing on a bruise. They were the clear ones, “for daytime use,” designed to be as invisible as possible. At Target earlier that day I’d hesitated in front of the locked cabinet of skin care products, not sure whether to get the unobtrusive stickers for those of us who are ashamed of ourselves and our disgusting bodies, or the cheerful neon star ones, for the beautiful, confident teens. The interesting new variable to consider while making this decision: Later that night I was going to drive across the Anacostia and sit in the cafeteria of a charter school for a few hours, to begin a weekend rock band camp for adults, where participants would:
choose an instrument
take a quick lesson or two
be assigned to bands
retire to designated classrooms to write a song with their bands; and finally
convene downtown on Sunday night at the Hard Rock Café (lol) to perform their songs in front of a small crowd of fellow campers and their sweetly supportive friends and family, as well as a larger crowd of bewildered Hard Rock Café patrons (teens and their field trip chaperones, mostly).
I had signed up for this camp a couple of weeks previous, after years of being vaguely aware of it and knowing of friends-of-friends who had done it. I hit the one year mark of my guitar lessons in March and just as I was scrolling through Instagram one night, wondering what was next for me on my little musical journey, there it was: a post announcing the next camp and a link to sign up. I clicked through and registered before I could convince myself otherwise. I didn’t ask anybody to do it with me; I wouldn’t know anybody there. So I could be whoever I wanted! Such as an insouciant middle-aged lady wearing bright, cute stickers on top of her gross acne.
A few weeks later, sitting with Gus on the couch, watching an episode of Limitless with Chris Hemsworth. I’d had high hopes for this harmless-seeming bro reality show, thinking it might be right up the kids’ alley, but I was becoming wary of it. The first episode had some genuinely nice positive masculinity vibes, what with Thor discussing his anxieties, then enlisting the help of his [supportive, dude] buddies and a [lady] psychologist to help him learn to manage his stress, so he could complete that episode’s task of tightrope walking on top of a skyscraper or whatever. So I took my eye off the ball, and Gus kept watching the show without me, and two days later as I passed through the room I caught the tail end of a scene where Peter Attia was convincing Hemsworth of the life-extending benefits of a four-day fast. “Uh,” I’d said, turning to look at Gus, who was, unfortunately, giving his full attention to this Jeff Bezos-ass celebrity doctor.
So I was watching another episode with him. They introduced the topic of the day — how we can exercise our brains to help ward off dementia — and I bristled as I always do when I sense I am about to once again endure a lecture about the benefits of playing word games on your cell phone, which I have been avoiding doing for the last 15 years because those games are stupid and I’m bad at them. But instead, this episode’s media trained medical expert started talking about the benefits of challenging ourselves with novel experiences. After a moment I relaxed. I’d just done that! At band camp. Forty eight unrelenting hours of novelty, inducing a full-body exhaustion that bloomed from my flabby, underutilized brain.
I did not end up trying to embody a new, more fun, more free type of personality that weekend w/r/t zit stickers or anything else, since it was an enlightening enough experience to just navigate the camp as myself. Very interesting, for example, during the interstitial moments between sessions, to observe the others — there were about 25 of us, with a handful around my age or older and the rest a truly sweet and fascinating but in some cases kind of tedious and rigid mix of Gen Z and Zillenial folks — coalescing into groups, gathering around tables or in the grass of the courtyard, basking in the sun and laughing, and in those moments to feel so clearly inside me the ghost of my younger self, who would have been filled with anxiety and despair at the sight of alliances and relationships forming without me. But now I am older, and I have enough friends, and 20-somethings hanging out with each other is none of my business. How nice to stretch out in the shade by myself with a magazine, freeing myself of the obligation to make more chitchat while my desperately depleted brain begs me, “Turn on Extreme Battery Mode???”
There was one younger woman, though, who I also noticed recharging her social battery by herself, without any of the self-consciousness that would have devoured me at that age. I liked her a lot. She was quieter, game to dance around to Lizzo during our “stage presence” class but not as cornily exuberant about it as the others. She was a guitarist like me, but a more accomplished one, and when I wondered aloud during one of our classes how to play D minor she said, “I can show you!” in the most charming way. She’d hiked the Appalachian Trail over the course of a few years, section by section, by herself; she’d just moved to DC and was living with her partner in our old neighborhood; I admired her style and flattered myself into thinking her choices — hair, tattoos, outfits — were younger, cuter versions of my own. She told me she liked Beach House, and I was surprised to hear this from someone her age, then wondered if she’d mentioned it to me because I seem retro enough to remember who that band was.
As Gus and I were sitting on the couch and Thor was preparing to navigate the Australian outback without a map, I looked at my phone: Instagram was once again showing me this young woman’s profile picture and asking me, don’t you know her? I clicked through: Her account was private, like mine. Obviously when I write my own version of that Miranda July book everyone’s talking about, this is where I will send her a friend request and the plot will really start revving up. Instead I just thought of her fondly and navigated away, releasing her from my weird, old attentions.
I was surprised by how strange and tiring this aspect of the camp was, the intergenerational social environment aspect, with my thoughts ping ponging around like “wow it is more weird being around these Gen Zers than I thought it would be // but that’s fine! Bless them // I think I need a little time to myself // look at them all hanging out // that’s also fine // wow some of them are kind of annoying // I bet they think I’m annoying too // fair enough // oh my god is she really standing up with her box of KN95s and lecturing everyone about accessibility // Jesus Christ these dour humorless CHILDREN // wow what is wrong with me? // oh right I’m so tired // Blessings! Blessings upon us all // etc.” The actual reason I signed up — to force myself to see what it was like to write a song and perform with other people — was, in comparison, just straightforwardly fun and interesting and I see now that it would be a good idea to figure out a way do those things more often, without being handheld by a nonprofit youth music organization. Alas.
This footage of me playing 5 power chords our band comes to you courtesy of Ryan, who I nervously texted on Sunday right before the show all “haha I don’t know if you guys are still planning to come but FYI you don’t have to,” who then responded “we’re on the bus right now??”
Recommended
I’ve seen the Operation Olive Branch spreadsheet going around again, for obvious reasons. Browsing through and finding some families to donate to doesn’t make me feel better per se but at least it doesn’t make me feel nothing.
DC’s democratic primary elections are happening now and I cannot wait to walk over to the library this week and write in “Gaza;” if you still have a chance to put in a protest vote in your state’s primary, might as well, you know? I can’t imagine, at this point, that anything we do will move Joe Biden and the ghouls who advise him to stop acting like dickless, soulless cowards (although we obviously have to keep trying). But I also can’t imagine checking a box with his name next to it, ever again, so all things being equal I’ll go ahead and not heap any more moral injury on myself by voting for him, especially not in a completely meaningless primary.
I just unfollowed a content creator, who I otherwise appreciate, for putting one of the horrible Rafah videos onto my feed with no warning. I’ve mentioned this before but there is no shame in being an average civilian who is doing what they can to push back against their country’s complicity in a genocide who also chooses not to consume images of dead, mutilated children. I will not slide into this creator’s DMs to lecture them but I do think it is self-aggrandizing, borderline pathological behavior to believe that you have the right to post those videos with no way for your followers to opt out. Sorry to sound like a shill for Karenish self-care and privileged unbotheredness but you gotta pop one of those sensitive content warnings on there, comrade
Switching gears real quick here: I want so many big, stupid, elastic waist clown pants but they all cost $200. So these are not “recommended” because I have not bought any of them; I guess I’m just hoping that if I put them here I will be released from my foolish desires. But have you tried any of these Big Clown Pants, and can you confirm that they either are or are not worth $200?? Do you know of any Big Clown Pants that cost LESS THAN $200??? If so please sound off in the comments, queen (bicycle horn honking noise):