Tanked

I want to apologize in advance that I am writing this post with what I can only describe as a low-grade migraine. My head is throbbing and when I close my eyes, I experience an explosion of light and color like an acid trip on acid. I'm typing without looking at the screen because through the discomfort all my brain can process is "Blog now! You need to blog about fish tanks! Bloooooooog and your headache will go away as if by magic!" So I am doing it, but I guarantee neither coherence nor entertainment.

Anyway, I grew up in the midwest, and like any upper-middle class American family from the region, our household success could be measured by the size and quality of our living room fish tank. I became aware of this at such a young age that it wasn't until grad school when I was sharing my story with someone who grew up far from me that I discovered that not everyone understands this to be a reliable measure and that I sound a bit like a crazy person when I talk about it. I assure you it is true. From the ages of 10 to 17, I was always acutely aware of who among my friends and extended family had better fish tanks than ours and whose fish tanks were found wanting.

Spell-Check Anomaly: Apparently the red squiggly line denoting a misspelled word appears under the compounded "fishtank" in the singular, but not "fishtanks" in the plural. Try it and see!"

Anyway, my family's current setup is a free-standing, 50-gallon affair in the corner of our front room (i.e. the living room ostensibly for company with the more expensive couches that nobody ever uses, as distinguished from the other living room or "family room" where the TV is and people actually do stuff). Containing a quiet filter, sundry false plants and rock formations, an adhesive backdrop resembling a tropical reef, and a rotating supply of freshwater fish and mollusks, it stands as a burbling symbol of comfort and my father's sense of frugality and distaste for ostentatious displays.

But we were not always 50-gallon people. I remember a time when I was about 8, and it was Halloween. All I had ever had were small bowls with at most 2 goldfish, usually won with a complimentary plastic bag at a crappy fun fair. But this Halloween there was a costume contest, and the winner got a free 10-gallon fish tank and probably a gift certificate to Walker Brothers Pancake House. (They always throw one of those in.) When they called out the winner: "Waldo!" I thought "Oh my God, that's me!" I made a bee-line for the stage, praying that I would get there before the other, much shittier Waldo I'd seen wandering around. (He drew stripes on a white t-shirt with a magic marker, something my mom and I tried before abandoning the idea because it looked like crap! My mom sprayed my hair brown and bought a shephard's costume just to cut the crook in half for a cane! He didn't even have a backpack. He was the shittiest Waldo ever, and he would NOT be taking my fish tank!)

I made it to the stage before him feeling no guilt whatsoever that this little kid was probably destroyed by being robbed of his prize. All that mattered was that I looked awesome, and I was finally able to do something to add to my family's value! A real live grown-up fish tank was something my family needed to realize it's potential, and I was the one bringing it home!

Well we bought all the bullshit, and I think I had fish in there for about 4 months before cleaning and maintenance became more effort than it was worth. The fish tank fell into disuse until it became home to a series of my sister's rodentia. But the seed was planted. We soon after bought another 10-gallon fish tank and ever since have played host to an ever-expanding populations of creatures of the deep.

I don't care about fish. My sister was the one who named and adored all the slimy things, and my parents played interior decorator. I would just go into the room to watch them placidly swim about and listen to the bubbles, content that the thing was there. Our family fish tank.

In high school I studied some architecture and design both in school and out, and in my second-year architecture class, I had grand plans of designing a giant entertainment center/shelving unit that was MADE ENTIRELY OF FISH TANK! Imagine a wall of light and color that you could look at all day. The fish would mingle with your books, drift around the borders of your favorite movies, poke in and out of your knick-knacks, ingratiating themselves with all of the objects with which you shape and define your sense of place and home. It would have been beautiful. Unfortunately, I had trouble with weight, cost, and practical concerns, not to mention reconciling 1,000 gallons of water with dozens of feet of electrical wiring. No compromise would satisfy me, and I had to abandon the idea outright.

I'm not saying there's a connection between the crumbling of my giant fish tank dream and my abandonment of architecture and design as a career path, but could you live your entire life only striving for second best?