Tag Archives: Aging

I Shall Wear the Bottoms of my Trousers Rolled

e74cd0b699ff04ed2d01dff3ca86736dAnother birthday here and gone. Essentially nothing has changed. The same wish list that’s scribbled in my high school journals persists:

1) Have better posture

2) Loose weight

3) Become a Broadway star

4) Figure out the meaning of life.

Is it weird that I think a few of these things are still possible?

I saw someone the other day who I hadn’t seen in at least 20 years. She claimed I hadn’t changed a bit. Should I feel good about this? They say as you get older you don’t care what people think about you but I find that just isn’t true. I still can’t go out of the house without mascara. I am getting more, not less socially awkward. And just the other day my daughter and I saw two old ladies wearing sequined baseball caps and ordering Tuna Melts at the local Newport Creamery. Adorable, yes, but if I start wearing sequins to Newport Creamery just put me in the nursing home.

On the other hand, I do feel less pressure to complete a sentence when I’m talking. People just nod and carry on. There is a certain fog that rolls in at my age, not always unpleasant.

But I do feel a bit untethered. My sense of home has unraveled. I have no bucket list to speak of. There is no plan for retirement and no driving goals.

Except reading. I can’t stop reading. (The Enchanted by Rene Denfeld, anyone? Holy crap!)

And then there is the writing. Which is about so many things, like time and faith and luck. And at my age you realize more acutely than in earlier years, that these things do in fact, run out.

But I am pessimistically optimistic or optimistically pessimistic, depending on the day. And what this means for someone my age, is that you just keep at it. We are, after all, if not Broadway stars, shining stars.

So here’s to birthdays coming and going. Shine on.

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Dear God, Where Have I Been?

Is leaving for a month without notice just blogging suicide? Will a humble apology do (mea culpa) or is there flogging involved?

I don’t know exactly what happened.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I have a host of excuses. A million of them. Some could even make you cry.

But I can’t roll out that list. Pointless because every writer has them. Poe an addict, Toni Morrison a single working mom, JK Rowling on the Dole. Virginia Wolf was certainly down in the dumps.

So let’s just move on.

Except there is one small thing.

I realized today I’m angry. At everything. At everyone. It’s not a huge loud anger. And it is murky and misdirected. But I think it is anger nonetheless.

This happened once before when I was going through a huge psychological transition in my life, at the end of which I was divorced, gay, bartending, and writing.

And now, 25 years later I’m wondering, what the hell is left?

But something is left. Something has been sitting and stewing deep in the darkness like Gollum in The Hobbit, just waiting for that ring. And pardon the pun, but I can’t put my finger on it.

I don’t think therapy can help with this one. Or food, or avoidance, or prayer, or alcohol. Not even a winning lottery ticket, which is what I usually hold out hope for, despite the fact that I never play.

Maybe Morgan Freeman could help. I like him. Maybe a nice hobby, like scrapbooking or bodysurfing.

It’s hard to have an existential crisis at my age. I feel ridiculous. Petty. I can’t sing Coldplay’s Fix You at the top of my lungs and have anyone take me seriously and join in.

But I can blog. I can come back to this, sit here and hit the Publish key, hope someone is still out there.

Lights will guide you home…

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