O is for Onus

Aging stinks, it’s no fun, it seems to be a changing river every day, such as, “Gee, yesterday (insert any body part) was fine; today it hurts.”
So I take an Aleve and keep going. I don’t have time for hypochondria today.
Or do I?
Because I’ve noticed that lately, the Onus of everyday is, ironically, to say Yes.
For a couple of decades, my mantra was “No” because good heavens, I only had so many hours in the day/I don’t have the energy for one more thing/is there really no one else on the planet who can do that?
Now, seemingly the next day, I feel the burden to say Yes to just about everything: to see, to do, to go, to share, to visit, to plumb the depths, to examine the sparkle, to make that wish. There’s only so much time — a thing I’ve known always — and now when I’m closer to the end than to the start, I’m striving to make the most of the proverbial ticking clock.
(Digital doesn’t tick, but I’ll bet there’s an app that would make it do so.)
As far as going/seeing/doing, I draw the line at airplanes, either getting aboard or jumping from. Airplanes are creepy. And the pilot won’t let me take the wheel — probably for good reason — but I have control issues when it comes to travel.
(Oh, and spelunking. Because, ew. Small spaces, small rodents, whiffs of guano; no thank you.)
Now back to my regularly scheduled rant…
Irony! Only so much time passed and I couldn’t cram it all in when I was full of vim and vigor, but now that I’m rattling from too much Aleve and cranky to boot, I notice that yes! I can cram one more thing into the day!
Irony is a cruel mistress.

N is for New, and Namaste

Aging brought boredom, a bit.
Routine, a general glum feeling, a hatred of the night.
It’s fun being me.
So I switched it up, changed the ol’ mind set, decided to try new things.
Woot! New! It’s the way to the future!
“New” led me to an art project that scared the poo out of me but has turned into a thing I kind of love.
And “New” led me to take exercise classes I would have given a hard “No” not long ago. I like the exercise; it’s the “class” part — the inclusion of other people and not just a workout video streaming through my tv — that I eschewed. Turns out: I like people! They motivate, they peer-pressure, they accidentally guilt me into staying and actually exercising. (Funny, because the tv never frowned when I turned off the videos after three minutes.)
“New” made me write…a lot…and though none of the projects are actually complete, they exist. So there’s that: a whole lot of words, sitting in a document, waiting around for me to re-visit them.
I feel a bit like sliding back into routine, though. A year or two of New, that’s enough, I thought. So I’m fighting the sliding and riding it out, writing and gliding into righting myself, upright back into New.
New is good. New is necessary.
Namaste.

 

M is for Middling…and Maternity Pants…and They Aren’t the Same Thing

Mid-life, middle-of-the-road, mid-journey, middle-age…so much interior-ness, with shoulders on both sides. Room for growth. Room for error.
Just room, on all sides, while I’m here in the middle.
Wishing for maternity pants.
I loved being pregnant, and a lot of why leads to the pants. You could get the wide banded kind that slides up and over, creating a sack for your burgeoning belly, or you could get the wide banded kind that stuck like scaffolding, directly under and around the bottom rim of the belly, supportive yet non-intrusive.
Delightful either way.
And now, in my mid-years, my Middle Earth, my stuck-in-the-middle-with-me days, I want those pants.
Because everything upon my person seems to have suffered during travel. Banged up, moved around, seemingly viscous…yup, things are just…lower…
(Except my boobs! Yay me for having the chest of a pre-adolescent my whole life!)
And because my abundant weight, my new inability to eat junk food — because it just doesn’t go away (burgers on my thighs from ten years ago, I’d swear) — and my increasing possessive spirit towards chocolate all bely my youthful interior, I crave the pants.
They comforted; they supported; they indulged my self-pity. I appreciated their efforts.
They were good pants, which, sadly-for-me but with gratitude and good riddance because I was “gonna lose the baby weight,” have gone to Goodwill to assist future new mothers of the planet.
My overalls, however, might have survived the postpartum cut…
Wait…would it look weird, at my age, to stroll into Target and buy a brand new pair of maternity pants? I’d have to lie to anyone gawking and say I was going to be grand-ternal.
And I assure you the new pair would get much more use…years and years of it…like, “Nope, can’t donate those when I’m gone from this orb” kind of use…