I was speculating with a friend last night about meeting up with an old boyfriend. Note I did not say fantasizing. I hate to admit I’m this shallow, but, I said, if an old boyfriend connected with me on the internet, and invited me for coffee, my response would likely be somewhere in the realm of, “I’m free the second week of March. In 2009.” Because, of course, that would give me time to lose fifty pounds and get my thermage treatment.
Not that I get thermage treatments. Not that I even know what one is, but I saw a sign about it at the dermatologist’s last week. Where I’d gone for an ingrown neck hair. Don’t you hate that?
But, I said to my friend, if he absolutely insisted on a meeting within this lifetime, then I’d be forced to say, “Here’s how you recognize me...”
“But,” my friend interrupted. “Wouldn’t he recognize you? You were married to him for four years.”
“In my twenties,” I replied. “Trust me.”
In my twenties. When I thought I was fat. Fat. I was one-hundred-twenty pounds or, taken in today’s context, about the size of my left thigh. Don’t you hate that?
So, she said, “Continue.”
“Here’s what I’d say. I’d say, ‘Just remember me as I was at twenty-five...’”
I waited for her laughter to subside. She waved a hand. “Sorry. Continue.”
“I’d say, ‘Just remember me as I was at twenty-five. Then multiply me by two.’”
Makes sense. I’m double the chin folds, double the bra size, double the hair length (to hide the chin folds), double the wrinkles, double (make that double-double-double) the gray hair, and double the weight. (Okay, that last is an exaggerration. Even here, amongst friends, I don’t want you picturing me the size of a, well, doublewide, when I’m only half the size of a fifth-wheel.)
“You forgot something,” my friend said.
And, just as I was turning over in my mind the true meaning of the word friend, she said, “You’re double the wisdom.”
She’s right. There’s a reason why each boyfriend from my past became an old boyfriend, and each experience left me a little older, maybe a little sadder for a while, but definitely a whole lot wiser...
Don’t you love that?
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Caramelicious Lattes and Dementia: A Research Study
This is an age where I have odd things haunt me in the middle of the night. Big things. Big, nasty things. Like, will I get osteoporosis? What if I lose all my money and end up in a tent down by the river? How can I bear it if my son marries someone I loathe? Will I eventually develop dementia? Do I have anything in the freezer for dinner?
I never used to worry about this kind of thing. Okay, maybe sometimes I’d spend a little time fretting over that freezer thing, largely because it’s hard to figure out what will take less than ten minutes to fix and my son would get tired of peanut butter, banana, and crushed potato-chip sandwiches. (Hey, don’t scoff till you’ve tried one.) But the rest of it seemed a long dreamscape away.
Not anymore.
So, last night, I perked up when I read about a recent dementia study. It seems researchers in France have concluded that women who drink 300 milligrams or more of caffeine each day are 33 percent more likely to retain their ability to remember words, and 18 percent less likely to lose their nonverbal memory than those who drank less. I’m not sure what nonverbal memory is, but it sounds like something I want to keep.
Hot dog. Finally, I can claim that a $4 Caramelicious Latte from Scooters is a health drink. But before I could be entirely reassured, I needed to figure out how many milligrams of caffeine was in one cup of coffee or one Diet Coke or one Caramelicious Latte from Scooters. Damn French. Once upon a third grade, I’d memorized that pesky metric system. Remember doing that? Everyone thought it was the coming thing, but it never arrived. If you don’t remember it, it’s because you’re too young or haven’t been drinking enough coffee.
I finally figured it out, though, after converting milligrams to the... cup... system. (And into pony kegs for you Texans.) And, I can now confidently tell you that the average cup of coffee has about 100 milligrams of caffeine. A pony keg? It has a lot more. And a Caramelicious Latte from Scooters? Does it matter?
Now, that may seem reassuring—-you can retain the ability to remember words for as long as you live merely by downing only three cups of coffee a day. Except, I’m here to tell you that I drink plenty more coffee than that, and I forget words all the time. Maybe they mean only some words.
If that's the case, I hope four of mine are Caramelicious Latte from Scooters. Then I won't mind that tent by the river.
I never used to worry about this kind of thing. Okay, maybe sometimes I’d spend a little time fretting over that freezer thing, largely because it’s hard to figure out what will take less than ten minutes to fix and my son would get tired of peanut butter, banana, and crushed potato-chip sandwiches. (Hey, don’t scoff till you’ve tried one.) But the rest of it seemed a long dreamscape away.
Not anymore.
So, last night, I perked up when I read about a recent dementia study. It seems researchers in France have concluded that women who drink 300 milligrams or more of caffeine each day are 33 percent more likely to retain their ability to remember words, and 18 percent less likely to lose their nonverbal memory than those who drank less. I’m not sure what nonverbal memory is, but it sounds like something I want to keep.
Hot dog. Finally, I can claim that a $4 Caramelicious Latte from Scooters is a health drink. But before I could be entirely reassured, I needed to figure out how many milligrams of caffeine was in one cup of coffee or one Diet Coke or one Caramelicious Latte from Scooters. Damn French. Once upon a third grade, I’d memorized that pesky metric system. Remember doing that? Everyone thought it was the coming thing, but it never arrived. If you don’t remember it, it’s because you’re too young or haven’t been drinking enough coffee.
I finally figured it out, though, after converting milligrams to the... cup... system. (And into pony kegs for you Texans.) And, I can now confidently tell you that the average cup of coffee has about 100 milligrams of caffeine. A pony keg? It has a lot more. And a Caramelicious Latte from Scooters? Does it matter?
Now, that may seem reassuring—-you can retain the ability to remember words for as long as you live merely by downing only three cups of coffee a day. Except, I’m here to tell you that I drink plenty more coffee than that, and I forget words all the time. Maybe they mean only some words.
If that's the case, I hope four of mine are Caramelicious Latte from Scooters. Then I won't mind that tent by the river.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
The Quest for Self-Knowledge or More Thoughts on Hardie-Plank
I like to know stuff. Bring up something arcane (Hardie-Plank, anyone?), and the next time you see me, I’ll have googled the life out of it. If I know something lies around the next corner (Hardie-Plank, anyone?), I want to know something about that something.
I’ve always put this tendency down to healthy curiosity, a keen interest in life, a ravenous desire to acquire knowledge just for knowledge’s sake. And isn't that just oh-so-cool (or hot or sick or wicked or sweet—I recently looked up teen jargon)? But this quirk of mine has a dark side.
I’ve read fourteen-gazillion-million self-help books, give or take a few. Whenever a problem, a challenge, a new stage, or a seminal event (I’m talking Really Seminal here: marriage, birth, death, divorce, and unexplained weight gain) crops up in my life, I turn to research. Right now, my bedside table holds:
THE LANGUAGE OF LETTING GO (Hazelden)
THE GRIEF CLUB, Melodie Beattie
EAT, PRAY, LOVE, Elizabeth Gilbert
THE SEVEN SPIRITUAL LAWS OF SUCCESS, Deepak Chopra
WOMEN’S BODIES, WOMEN’S WISDOM, Christiane Northrup
TRAVELING MERCIES, SOME THOUGHTS ON FAITH Anne LaMott
OPENING OUR HEARTS, TRANSFORMING OUR LOSSES Al-Anon Family Groups
EACH DAY A NEW BEGINNING (Hazelden)
CODEPENDENT NO MORE, Melodie Beattie
THE POWER OF NOW, Eckhart Tolle
LEAP! Sara Davidson
And, the BIBLE, among others.
It’s a big bedside table.
They’re all there because I either haven’t finished them...
(For whatever reason, I reserve what I call my “spiritual reading” for bedtime reading only. Bedtime reading may consist of only thirty-four-point-oh-eight seconds before I’m snoring. Also, I rarely read an entire book before starting another; which means I’m reading all of these at once.)
Anyway, as I said, they’re either there because I haven’t finished them, or because I have, and I've appreciated their wisdom, and I like having them where I can readily poke through them again.
A perusing of the titles at my bedside gives you a snapshot of the challenges my life holds at any particular moment. Admirable of me, don’t you think, to want to face my problems head on? Well, it is, kind of. I try not to keep my head in the sand. I aim for self-awareness, even though I often fall woefully short.
But the sheer number of titles indicates the dark side of my self-knowledge quest. It indicates my tendency to think that if I just know enough, I’ll be in control... if I just read enough, I’ll know all the outcomes. Laughable, of course. Nobody can ever know what lies around the next corner.
And is that really so bad? As my exasperated sister said the last time I verged on an anxiety attack (right after she said, “Will you just stop it already?!”), knowing everything might just take all the fun out of life.
So, I suppose I could lighten up on my reading. But, sometime, ask me about Hardie-Plank.
I’ve always put this tendency down to healthy curiosity, a keen interest in life, a ravenous desire to acquire knowledge just for knowledge’s sake. And isn't that just oh-so-cool (or hot or sick or wicked or sweet—I recently looked up teen jargon)? But this quirk of mine has a dark side.
I’ve read fourteen-gazillion-million self-help books, give or take a few. Whenever a problem, a challenge, a new stage, or a seminal event (I’m talking Really Seminal here: marriage, birth, death, divorce, and unexplained weight gain) crops up in my life, I turn to research. Right now, my bedside table holds:
THE LANGUAGE OF LETTING GO (Hazelden)
THE GRIEF CLUB, Melodie Beattie
EAT, PRAY, LOVE, Elizabeth Gilbert
THE SEVEN SPIRITUAL LAWS OF SUCCESS, Deepak Chopra
WOMEN’S BODIES, WOMEN’S WISDOM, Christiane Northrup
TRAVELING MERCIES, SOME THOUGHTS ON FAITH Anne LaMott
OPENING OUR HEARTS, TRANSFORMING OUR LOSSES Al-Anon Family Groups
EACH DAY A NEW BEGINNING (Hazelden)
CODEPENDENT NO MORE, Melodie Beattie
THE POWER OF NOW, Eckhart Tolle
LEAP! Sara Davidson
And, the BIBLE, among others.
It’s a big bedside table.
They’re all there because I either haven’t finished them...
(For whatever reason, I reserve what I call my “spiritual reading” for bedtime reading only. Bedtime reading may consist of only thirty-four-point-oh-eight seconds before I’m snoring. Also, I rarely read an entire book before starting another; which means I’m reading all of these at once.)
Anyway, as I said, they’re either there because I haven’t finished them, or because I have, and I've appreciated their wisdom, and I like having them where I can readily poke through them again.
A perusing of the titles at my bedside gives you a snapshot of the challenges my life holds at any particular moment. Admirable of me, don’t you think, to want to face my problems head on? Well, it is, kind of. I try not to keep my head in the sand. I aim for self-awareness, even though I often fall woefully short.
But the sheer number of titles indicates the dark side of my self-knowledge quest. It indicates my tendency to think that if I just know enough, I’ll be in control... if I just read enough, I’ll know all the outcomes. Laughable, of course. Nobody can ever know what lies around the next corner.
And is that really so bad? As my exasperated sister said the last time I verged on an anxiety attack (right after she said, “Will you just stop it already?!”), knowing everything might just take all the fun out of life.
So, I suppose I could lighten up on my reading. But, sometime, ask me about Hardie-Plank.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
I’ve been spending my spare time online, looking at real estate in Rockport, TX. Yes, that’d be spare time... that thing you have a lot of when your hormones insist that the two minutes between 12:45 and 12:47 at night are more than adequate for your sleep cycle to do its thing.
Anyway, looking at real estate in Rockport, TX usually points up how much I do not know about this place where I’ve chosen to move. For example, around my neck of the woods, you’d highlight “Thermal Windows!” and “Basement!” There, the ads tout “Hurricane Shutters!” and “HardiePlank!”
HardiePlank? Thank God for Google. By the way, that’s har-d-i-e, not hardi- or hardy- for those of you who actually live in Texas but have advertised it incorrectly because you probably have better things to do at three in the morning than look it up.
If you did, though, you’d discover it’s named HardiePlank because James Hardie invented it. Frankly, I was so fascinated by his great luck in having a name that lent itself so well to the product he created, I almost missed the little fact that people-who-should-know claim this fiber-cement siding offers great protection against termites, rot, and water damage.
But I didn’t miss it. And, of course, that set me to wondering (in Texas, you don’t just wonder, you get set to wonder) how big a problem they have with these things. If I’d thought about it much before, which I hadn’t, I probably could have figured out that in a place where I can landscape my yard with the tropical plants I currently have in pots in my house, moisture might be a problem, and it's likely they grow termites the size of Cadillacs, termites that consider a four-by-four a light snack.
Which then sets me wondering about the size of other bugs indigenous to the region, given that, unlike my Midwestern clime, there’s no freeze snap to kill ‘em dead. (That's right... not just kill ‘em, kill ‘em dead. You're catching on.) Which is pretty much how I prefer my bugs.
Guess that’s something I can Google tonight.
Anyway, looking at real estate in Rockport, TX usually points up how much I do not know about this place where I’ve chosen to move. For example, around my neck of the woods, you’d highlight “Thermal Windows!” and “Basement!” There, the ads tout “Hurricane Shutters!” and “HardiePlank!”
HardiePlank? Thank God for Google. By the way, that’s har-d-i-e, not hardi- or hardy- for those of you who actually live in Texas but have advertised it incorrectly because you probably have better things to do at three in the morning than look it up.
If you did, though, you’d discover it’s named HardiePlank because James Hardie invented it. Frankly, I was so fascinated by his great luck in having a name that lent itself so well to the product he created, I almost missed the little fact that people-who-should-know claim this fiber-cement siding offers great protection against termites, rot, and water damage.
But I didn’t miss it. And, of course, that set me to wondering (in Texas, you don’t just wonder, you get set to wonder) how big a problem they have with these things. If I’d thought about it much before, which I hadn’t, I probably could have figured out that in a place where I can landscape my yard with the tropical plants I currently have in pots in my house, moisture might be a problem, and it's likely they grow termites the size of Cadillacs, termites that consider a four-by-four a light snack.
Which then sets me wondering about the size of other bugs indigenous to the region, given that, unlike my Midwestern clime, there’s no freeze snap to kill ‘em dead. (That's right... not just kill ‘em, kill ‘em dead. You're catching on.) Which is pretty much how I prefer my bugs.
Guess that’s something I can Google tonight.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Buy the Blue Duck
I have one of those garden windows over my kitchen sink; it provides a nest for a trio of wooden ducks. You’ve seen them before: Target? Smith & Hawken? Anyway, last June in Rockport, my sister and I were strolling along a row of shops when I spotted a blue wooden duck in a window. At the time, my trio was only a pair: I had a tall orange duck, and a short green duck. The blue duck was of middling size, and given that my kitchen included orange, sage, and blue, and, in the duck category, so to speak, blue was the missing link—again, so to speak—well, you get the idea.
Except the duck cost thirty dollars. Now, people are oft-possessed of the idea that published writers are rolling in loot, but when you think of me, think more along the lines of rolling in pocket lint. Thirty dollars isn’t a huge chunk, but it’s a chunk. (Not to mention, I come from a long line of practical Swedes. My mother would not have approved.)
But my sister nudged me into it. “Sometimes,” she said. “You have to buy the blue duck.”
So I did. And I love it. And if that thirty dollars caused a squeeze somewhere else, I didn’t notice.
My sister is right. Life’s short. Buy the blue duck.
Except the duck cost thirty dollars. Now, people are oft-possessed of the idea that published writers are rolling in loot, but when you think of me, think more along the lines of rolling in pocket lint. Thirty dollars isn’t a huge chunk, but it’s a chunk. (Not to mention, I come from a long line of practical Swedes. My mother would not have approved.)
But my sister nudged me into it. “Sometimes,” she said. “You have to buy the blue duck.”
So I did. And I love it. And if that thirty dollars caused a squeeze somewhere else, I didn’t notice.
My sister is right. Life’s short. Buy the blue duck.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
A God Thought
I don't want to scare you off by talking about God, but I have one, so occasionally I might bring Him up. Like today. Because it's struck me lately how often I get what I pray for.
But a lot of times, I don't recognize it right away. For one thing, it never happens in one fell swoop, like, God: "Alrighty, then! Here's your million, sweetums. Enjoy." Or in an organized manner. I mean, it was my idea to earn my living through self-employment, but I had in mind via one very sizeable book advance--or, better yet, a blockbuster movie deal--not by juggling 1.1 gazillion freelance endeavors. (I'm currently praying for a bigger calendar upon which to notate my deadlines.) Nor does the answer to my prayers ever look quite the way I'd envisioned it... Me: "Um, scuse me? God? When I asked for a stretch of R&R, I forgot to mention I didn't want to spend it in a hospital."
I write books, right? Well, the way God continually closes doors and opens windows in resopnse to my choices and requests strikes me as similar to my writing process. Until I'm all done, it looks like one big mess. Yet, each chapter eventually comes together. If I'm patient.
But a lot of times, I don't recognize it right away. For one thing, it never happens in one fell swoop, like, God: "Alrighty, then! Here's your million, sweetums. Enjoy." Or in an organized manner. I mean, it was my idea to earn my living through self-employment, but I had in mind via one very sizeable book advance--or, better yet, a blockbuster movie deal--not by juggling 1.1 gazillion freelance endeavors. (I'm currently praying for a bigger calendar upon which to notate my deadlines.) Nor does the answer to my prayers ever look quite the way I'd envisioned it... Me: "Um, scuse me? God? When I asked for a stretch of R&R, I forgot to mention I didn't want to spend it in a hospital."
I write books, right? Well, the way God continually closes doors and opens windows in resopnse to my choices and requests strikes me as similar to my writing process. Until I'm all done, it looks like one big mess. Yet, each chapter eventually comes together. If I'm patient.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Hero's Journey or Midlife Crisis?
As I’ve mentioned, life has snipped a lot of strings that tied my life together in the last couple of years. After a near-year of contemplating my navel, er, life, I’ve taken a deep breath and decided to step out on faith. Or rather, two-step to Texas.
I live in a Midwestern city. I’ve always—except for ten years spent, first, in the cocoon of campus life and then, in a job in that same university town—lived in this Midwestern city. In fact, for most of the time, despite a population of over 2 million, I’ve lived in a neighborhood less than a mile from the one where I grew up. After my divorce, I moved on. Only three miles on.
And now I want to jump a state to Texas? Actually, make that two states. I’ll count Texas as well, since the place where I want to live there is just shy of an oil rig on the Gulf of Mexico: Rockport.
Anyone heard of Rockport? It’s about forty minutes north of Corpus Christi, on Aransas Bay. It’s a funky, part working-class, part snowbird-class, part upscale, part downtown, part shrimp-boat, part yacht club kind of a place. (You can see pix at www.cityofrockport.com - choose “Rockport Beach” from the menu; there are slide shows at the bottom of the page.)
I can’t decide if I’m launched on a hero’s journey or immersed in a midlife crisis.
I live in a Midwestern city. I’ve always—except for ten years spent, first, in the cocoon of campus life and then, in a job in that same university town—lived in this Midwestern city. In fact, for most of the time, despite a population of over 2 million, I’ve lived in a neighborhood less than a mile from the one where I grew up. After my divorce, I moved on. Only three miles on.
And now I want to jump a state to Texas? Actually, make that two states. I’ll count Texas as well, since the place where I want to live there is just shy of an oil rig on the Gulf of Mexico: Rockport.
Anyone heard of Rockport? It’s about forty minutes north of Corpus Christi, on Aransas Bay. It’s a funky, part working-class, part snowbird-class, part upscale, part downtown, part shrimp-boat, part yacht club kind of a place. (You can see pix at www.cityofrockport.com - choose “Rockport Beach” from the menu; there are slide shows at the bottom of the page.)
I can’t decide if I’m launched on a hero’s journey or immersed in a midlife crisis.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Why here? Why now?
So, let’s get this party started!
Nah, the title I’ve given this blog doesn’t refer to menopause – or not just to menopause, although that might be a topic sometimes, but I thought if I referenced that Big Change somewhere upfront, it might be a clue that this blog is intended for women of a certain... a certain, special... age. Or for women approaching midlife who want to get a handle on what’s coming up. Yowza! Or are leaving midlife and are willing to share the wisdom of their experience. Please.
Maybe you’ve stumbled upon this blog by accident (instead of being driven there by the whips I’ve employed on some of my friends). If so, I’ll start by introducing myself. I’m Jerri Corgiat. I’m of that certain age. I have one son, now 18, and I’m now glad I let him live that long although there was a recent time when it was tempting not to. I’m divorced (almost two years now—although I still refer to him as my husband intead of my ex-husband; when does that stop?). And, until last year, I (with my sister’s help) managed the care of our aging parents.
I mention these things as, for the most part, they constitute my credentials for this topic. I’m sure you have similar.
I’m also a writer, a published one. As such, I have a web site and I issue a newsletter. And these things I mention because that’s where this all got started.
When the career-going got tough in the last year, I got... I got to whining a lot. I whined to my friends, to my family, and, not wanting to spare anyone, to the people who subscribed to my newsletters. I whined about how much I’d been through. I whined about how hard it was to keep a stiff upper lip. I whined some more about how much I’d been through...
And then one day I realized I’m not all that special. Yes, a lot has happened—there’s been a lot of change. I’ll spare the details for now, as I don’t want this blog to get bogged down in the wailing and gnashing of teeth—at least, what teeth I have left. Suffice it to say (I love that phrase—kind of rolls off the tongue), in the past few years, I’ve seen a lot of change. I no longer fill a daughter’s role or a wife’s. My mother role has shifted as my son has graduated. He still lives at home, but I’ve relinquished control. (You know. Control. That thing we fool ourselves into thinking we have.) I’ve also moved from a home I loved into one I still only just kind of like, and am—as writers like to put it since it sounds much more gentle than hosed—between contracts. I’ve also started a new part-time job as a writing instructor. Another change.
Some of these changes have contributed to—probably escalated—all those other changes that also come along right about now, like...
The physical:
Hello? When did I start getting the hint of a jowl line that one day will look like my Uncle LeRoy’s?.
The mental:
Where, exactly, was my mind at when I hung up my car keys in the freezer?
And the emotional:
My God, I’m pretty certain I now have the mortuary’s phone number memorized...
(Okay, okay. Maybe too much dark humor, but sometimes that’s the best I—and probably you—can do. Better than no humor at all.)
So, yes, lots of change, but the only thing special about what’s happened in my life is that it all landed at once. Along with the trauma and... let’s call it what it is: near-psychosis... that gives rise to. As a friend of mine once put it—and I think she was just contemplating the rush-hour traffic at the time, not the fact that she had one kid leaving for London and the other for the wilds of Montana after nineteen years of fixing their dinner: “I’m either depressed... or homicidal.”
Of course, you’ve been there. So I asked the subscribers to my newsletter if they wanted to discuss it a little. And many of them said yes. So here we all are. I’ll post a little; you post a little. We’ll celebrate together and moan together and weep together and share what’s helped get us through. And what hasn’t.
In short, let’s party.
Nah, the title I’ve given this blog doesn’t refer to menopause – or not just to menopause, although that might be a topic sometimes, but I thought if I referenced that Big Change somewhere upfront, it might be a clue that this blog is intended for women of a certain... a certain, special... age. Or for women approaching midlife who want to get a handle on what’s coming up. Yowza! Or are leaving midlife and are willing to share the wisdom of their experience. Please.
Maybe you’ve stumbled upon this blog by accident (instead of being driven there by the whips I’ve employed on some of my friends). If so, I’ll start by introducing myself. I’m Jerri Corgiat. I’m of that certain age. I have one son, now 18, and I’m now glad I let him live that long although there was a recent time when it was tempting not to. I’m divorced (almost two years now—although I still refer to him as my husband intead of my ex-husband; when does that stop?). And, until last year, I (with my sister’s help) managed the care of our aging parents.
I mention these things as, for the most part, they constitute my credentials for this topic. I’m sure you have similar.
I’m also a writer, a published one. As such, I have a web site and I issue a newsletter. And these things I mention because that’s where this all got started.
When the career-going got tough in the last year, I got... I got to whining a lot. I whined to my friends, to my family, and, not wanting to spare anyone, to the people who subscribed to my newsletters. I whined about how much I’d been through. I whined about how hard it was to keep a stiff upper lip. I whined some more about how much I’d been through...
And then one day I realized I’m not all that special. Yes, a lot has happened—there’s been a lot of change. I’ll spare the details for now, as I don’t want this blog to get bogged down in the wailing and gnashing of teeth—at least, what teeth I have left. Suffice it to say (I love that phrase—kind of rolls off the tongue), in the past few years, I’ve seen a lot of change. I no longer fill a daughter’s role or a wife’s. My mother role has shifted as my son has graduated. He still lives at home, but I’ve relinquished control. (You know. Control. That thing we fool ourselves into thinking we have.) I’ve also moved from a home I loved into one I still only just kind of like, and am—as writers like to put it since it sounds much more gentle than hosed—between contracts. I’ve also started a new part-time job as a writing instructor. Another change.
Some of these changes have contributed to—probably escalated—all those other changes that also come along right about now, like...
The physical:
Hello? When did I start getting the hint of a jowl line that one day will look like my Uncle LeRoy’s?.
The mental:
Where, exactly, was my mind at when I hung up my car keys in the freezer?
And the emotional:
My God, I’m pretty certain I now have the mortuary’s phone number memorized...
(Okay, okay. Maybe too much dark humor, but sometimes that’s the best I—and probably you—can do. Better than no humor at all.)
So, yes, lots of change, but the only thing special about what’s happened in my life is that it all landed at once. Along with the trauma and... let’s call it what it is: near-psychosis... that gives rise to. As a friend of mine once put it—and I think she was just contemplating the rush-hour traffic at the time, not the fact that she had one kid leaving for London and the other for the wilds of Montana after nineteen years of fixing their dinner: “I’m either depressed... or homicidal.”
Of course, you’ve been there. So I asked the subscribers to my newsletter if they wanted to discuss it a little. And many of them said yes. So here we all are. I’ll post a little; you post a little. We’ll celebrate together and moan together and weep together and share what’s helped get us through. And what hasn’t.
In short, let’s party.
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