Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Warm ups

Are blogs still around? Do people read them? Write them? I'm not sure anymore. I spent the last 2+ years away, immersed in other stuff like working and parenting and packing and unpacking. I kept up with the reading (just barely), subscribed to ever more magazines, and continued to call Amazon my best friend. But I stopped writing anything but grocery lists and reading anything on the computer.

I opened up this sad sack, this old blog, because of the commitment it entails. I need to have this thing calling me to warm up my fingers and drum up some business in my brain. The seed for the new book is planted and growing and as per, I can't just dive right in. I have to warm up. Just like the gym I guess.

The space has changed. That's one thing. The sounds are still the same, the kids and the music and the hum of the laundry. There is one more kid and in this spot the laundry is closer, but it is all familiar. I'm hoping that the words come back easily and flow the same rate, or perhaps faster and better, but that all remains to be told.

Thursday, June 21, 2012


And the drumbeat carries on.

I think I'm having a midlife crisis. How trite, you might say, wondering what precipitated such overused words. Such a passing thought may have never entered your head.

It started suddenly, this questioning of everything and sudden morbidity. An old lady was crossing the street. I looked at her, much like I look at anyone. No. That isn't true. I look at people differently. I look at other women to gauge how I look next to them. Am I fatter? Fitter? Prettier? Better dressed? I look at men to compare with my husband. I've yet to find one I like better, thank god. I look at kids to compare to my kids and babies to affirm that yes, my babies really are the best babies around.

But I rarely, if ever, look at old people. That is until lately. Lately I can't stop. I look at the old ladies going to the grocery store, taking their time in the parking lot, walking carefully. I look at the mothers and daughters, daughters perhaps ten years older than I, escorting mothers to doctors, to the mall, to wherever they need to go. I look at old ladies by themselves. And it hit me, this completely non-novel thought. I can't escape that. I can do what I can, eat right and go to the gym and wear sunscreen that makes me break out. I can pretend im my head that I'm not getting old.

But I am.

And there is no way, no how, that I can avoid it. I mean, other than the obvious, dying before I prefer. There is no way to circumvent the neck, the wrinkles, the sagging. The pain I imagine accompanies it all. The slow. The gait.

I read these women, these strong career women who I admire/dread/envy, like Barbara Amiel and Judith Timson, and these women are there. They aren't a few years away, like I am. They are if not right on the edge, then fully immersed in old. A few years ago they seemed ageless. Now they are aged.

I have nothing on this. No solution, no conclusion.