Captain Sensible

I got this great insight in my e-mail today: "Now that I think about it, I suppose you always were the cool rain on my rabid sunshine." It was part of a larger discussion about youthful idealism, and it came to me as little to no surprise that this friend of mine from oh-so-many-years-ago pictured me as a kind of psychic storm cloud. She was being very nice about it, I thought, considering how many parades I had rained on of hers alone.
But that's been my method of operation for as long as I can remember. Phrases such as, "I hate to be the one to tell you this," or simply, "You really think that'll work?" just seem to fall out of my head without much help. I like to play this off as being a skeptic, or from time to time, being "helpful." Considering the number of creative types that I have surrounded myself with over the years, I'm surprised that I've gotten away with it as long as I have.
Of course I have the best intentions for bursting bubbles. My wife has suffered my overbearing practicality on any number of occasions. We haven't painted this or purchased that, all in the name of playing it safe. I like to keep track of just how often my point of view has been vindicated, when the real cost analysis of living just a little closer to the edge gets ignored. As I have grown older, the safety and comfort of the middle pulls ever stronger.
Has this made me less idealistic? Perhaps. I still prefer my politics on the left-hand side, and I know that my hedonistic period ended just a short time ago, in geological terms. Which is why it is such a big deal to me every time I decide to blow off cleaning the house in favor of catching a movie on a Friday evening. I guard my own impulses carefully because I feel that I lack the conviction to carry them out. I hide my artistic light under a bushel. But every so often it erupts into that same "rabid sunshine", and I revel in that part of me that can take a chance, until I hear that voice in my head: "You can't be serious." Well, sadly, I guess I can.