I had a little relapse and spent yesterday feeling sick and miserable. Slept off and on all day and ate toast and drank a few glasses of protein water. Operative word: Blerg.
Today is a brand new day. Instead of dark and gray and snow flurries, there is sunshine and blue and a very cold breeze. Chloe has already been to the beach with Jim and me (thank you my lovely friend] this morning, but I feel like taking her again. She’s chewing up a barbecue tool while her car blanket spins in the washing machine. The television is on, but the sound is muted. I can’t stand anymore bad news.
When the blanket is clean and dry we’ll head back to the shore. I could stand another quiet day before I dive into a new plan.
Nothing has felt right. Nothing fit. I didn’t feel excited, not a bit of passion, no love, whenever I thought about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I did think about what I didn’t want. No cold calling, sales, high-energy, multi-tasking, rock n roll, get ‘er done and work my ass off because I enjoy making the lazy CEOs rich. I wondered about what was wrong. Was I way too past my prime? Had I become obsolete or at least irrelevant? Why didnt anything fit? Why did I feel apologetic? Embarrassed? Unconvinced and therefore unconvincing?
I don’t want to sell you anything. That’s key. On the other hand, I don’t want to feel like your underling. I don’t mind being helpful. I even think it’s cool to be a servant, but I don’t want to be a modern-day knave to any corporation/kingdom. For a while I wondered if there was something wrong with my attitude, but I understand it now. I come from blue-collar stock, at least partially. I also come from a group of brilliant thinkers, creative artists, and hilarious rascals. We make our own way. We were independent business folks, farmers, factory workers, think tank members, stay-at-home moms and entrepreneurs.
Follow your passion, was the advice. Horticulture! Web design! Writing! Art! But how do any of those become a new career for an already middle-aged woman? That’s my problem. That’s where I run into a thick brick (and ivy covered) wall. That’s where the jokes about mothers and old people on Facebook and riffs about age shut me down, and shut me down completely. Utterly, really. I mean it.
I hate being laughed at. I fear the inevitable snickers, snide comments, and assumptions about who I must be (for instance, I didnt know anything was wrong with Chico’s).
Here’s the thing. So what?
That’s all there is to it. So what? I’ll do what I love, go where I want to go, say what I need to say, love who I want to love, laugh when something’s funny, cry when I’m moved to cry and if that makes someone snicker, so what?
On another note: crocus!
A pile of things: The gigantic fallen branches are gone and the leaf mess is gone from the patio. Ferns are poking out, as are the tulips. Daffodils bloom. We need a bazillion pounds of mulch and pea gravel for the various paths. This year we should split the Hostas.
Clean and organize the office. Organize the art supplies, which is a never-ending clarion call. Make the two-headed doll and create a few more springtime cards. Mop the floor. Pre-cook several pounds of ground beef and freeze it.
These are wishes (like fishes) that may or may not get done this week, but I put them here in the spirit of hopefulness.
Have coffee with one old friend and a new Twitter friend that shares my love of gardening. Take that damned placement test I keep putting off because I’m terrified. Change the air filter. Make our bed.
My stomach is gurgling in protest, still unsure if she wants me to have a good day. Stomach doesn’t have much authority if I don’t fill it, so I won’t. She’ll have to go to the beach with me so Chloe can run with her friends while I watch the sun sent over the water and behind the Olympic mountain range. Thats the plan.
We’re off.