The Gimlet Eye

I’m late, by decades, to this party, but I’ve recently been watching installments of the Up series, the British documentary, directed mostly by Michael Apted, that has chronicled the lives of a dozen or so seven-year-olds, of varying classes and backgrounds. The conceit of the films, which check in with the subjects at seven-year intervals, is “Give me a child until he is 7, and I will show you the man.”

But is that so?

I’m only partway through the films, so perhaps life will zig rather than zag for some of the participants. At the point where my viewing left off, that isn’t the case. Going to Oxford instead of Cambridge can’t count as a life truly veering from the plan, can it?

Yet, science suggests we do change (and also that we are better at perceiving it in hindsight than we are predicting it, according to one study). I suppose one argument is that change is easier had in America than in class-bound Britain. But I also wonder if it hinges on what we mean by change. After all, that study I mentioned measured change by asking how much people would pay to see one of their current bands 10 years hence and how much they’d spend on tickets today for a show by one in heavy rotation a decade earlier. That, on average, they’d pay more for the former is taken by the researchers as evidence of our inability to realise our tastes will alter; I think it might just be accounting for inflation.

My broader point, though, is that seems to me superficial change, not deep-seated. Similarly, when I went to my high-school reunion this summer, people commented on how different I was. But, given that, in the main, I had nothing but casual conversations, I think they meant “you’ve changed your hair colour and put on makeup,” not “you’re a fundamentally altered person.” Although many, and many meaningful, things have happened to me in that time, I’m not sure that they’ve shaken the bedrock of who I am.

Is that good or bad? On one hand, it’s depressing, because it suggests that we’re imprinted in a certain way, long before we can really have a say-so. On the other, should one’s core principles be as mutable as one’s taste in music?

For the record, I still like Depeche Mode.

When I was a little kid I got it into my head than certain numbers were luckier than others. The number seven, for instance — so I was convinced that the year I turned that age would be auspicious. Given that I spent half of my sixth year in a cast nearly as heavy as myself after smashing my left leg so badly that doctors were doubtful I’d ever properly walk, the bar was sort of low. But my recollection is the year I was seven was a pretty good year.

That said, I’ve not carried those beliefs (superstitions?) into adulthood. I didn’t assign any mystical import to 12-12-12, for instance. And so what does it matter that today is the first day of 2013? Probably little. Fortunes don’t change with the calendar. Still, I’m going to try to be optimistic, to be hopeful. At the very least, the new year will bring new experiences, new adventures, new challenges. There’s something pretty good in that.

The other night someone I once knew came through town, and we went for a drink. I hadn’t seen him in a long while, yet we’d once been intimate. Yes, in the sexual sense, as it happens, but truly here I mean “intimate” in that I knew him well. And still do, apparently — as I was watching him speak, I realised I could anticipate what words he would choose, when he would pause, whether and how his face would settle into a smile or a grimace. Despite the time that had passed, it was a very familiar conversation.

Afterwards, I crossed the street for another drink, with a person I’ve only just met. We’re too new to each other to say that we’re friends. We have a mutual acquaintance so we know the basic sketch of one another’s lives — we have schools in common and single mothers and China — but the whole evening was about beginning to flesh out the picture, to colour in the lines. What will the other person find interesting? Funny? Sad? Is that pause boredom, or thoughtfulness?

But that’s how the relationship with my first drinking partner started, too. It’s how they all start, really. The initial chat, probing for commonalities, differences. Over time, you learn the other’s backstory, personal narrative, and perhaps that casual association, the polite get-to-know-you drink, develops into something more. When it’s happening, you don’t so much pause to think about it. But then there’s this person in your life and you know about his relationship with his mother and whether he’s a red- or white-wine guy, the self-deprecating story he always tells on himself. You’ve got intimacy. Could be that kind of intimacy, if that’s what you’re after — but regardless, there’s camaraderie, ease…friendship.

Then, one day, it could be gone. Do I sound wistful? Am I? In this case, the decision was mine, and I’ve never questioned it. Relationships can be ephemeral, your tie is, perhaps, but he’s going on, drinking red, frowning when he means to smile, being a mama’s boy. It’s just that you’re not a part of it. Think about it — maybe you’re the temporal one.