My 20s were a crash course in adulting. Motherhood, failed relationships, financial bungling – the works. I came out of them with a new sense of humility.
My 30s were all about tough lessons in partnership, individuality, and knowing myself better. I came out of them heartbroken, but stronger than ever.
My 40s appear to be about laying down burdens that I didn’t realize I was carrying, and applying the lessons of my 20s and 30s to a new beginning. I have no idea how I’ll come out of them, but I’m not intimidated by the possibilities.
It occurs to me that my friends and family don’t really understand where my life is at right now. Even though I’m fairly regular about posting to facebook, I understand not everyone is as glued to that medium and might miss out on some pertinent details. This post is meant to rectify that, so if you don’t know me in real life, it won’t mean that much to you.
Ro and I (and all three dogs) have been moved in to a 900 sq. ft. duplex since mid-May. It’s tiny as hell, but allows all three of my dogs and is in a conveniently-situated part of town. It’s also affordable. These three items generally outweigh the numerous inconveniences, which I don’t want to complain about because my landlady is a good friend and went out of her way to make this place as accommodating as she could. I’m immensely grateful, and will learn to live with the things that are difficult.
I’m in college full time now. 10 credit hours over the summer, and 14 in the fall. It is utterly exhausting. My brain just hurts all the time now and every second I’m not studying or walking my dogs, I’m sleeping. This will get worse when I get accepted into the Physical Therapy Assistant program which starts in January. There wasn’t any other way to work out my school schedule – the “luck” of my ex-husband’s choices put me in a precarious position and I had to just do the best I could. That means working hard, which I’m no stranger to, but it’s a lot different at 41 than it was at 21.
Speaking of exes, I expect my divorce to be finalized within the next week or so. It was a drawn out, expensive process with a few arguments, but ultimately I got what I asked for, which was a temporary, modest living stipend until I finish school. I also kept my car and my IRA, and the dogs.
Which brings me to my next point: modest living. I’m back in a financial position I haven’t seen in over 14 years, which is scary-poor. Not nearly-homeless poor, thank goodness, but that is only because my daughter is gainfully employed and can pay the rent and utilities. But because I had to pay for some of my school out of pocket, which ate up the last of my savings, I’m now in “Oh Zeus please don’t let anything bad happen to me, my dogs, or my car or I am up shit creek” poor. I am uninsured, medically, and I don’t qualify for state aid by virtue of living in the state of Missouri (yay red state conservatism that doesn’t give a fuck if you die!). Every cent I have goes toward living expenses, which even shared are not negligible, and I’m literally holding my breath that nothing unexpected happens. Which is usually a strong indicator that it will.
I have no time, no money, and generally no patience. I am stressed out most of the time, living on a razor’s edge of catastrophe, but at least I’m too tired to freak out about it very often.
Somebody recently said how proud they were that I was “living my dream”. They meant pursuing my education, and I’m grateful for the sentiment in that respect, but this was most definitely not my dream. My dream went up in flames with my marriage and I haven’t had the energy or optimism to form a new one. I’m living my survival right now, and that’s all.
If you know me in real life, please don’t tease me about any of the above. My sense of humor has taken a scarily long hike and anything that resembles “blue skying” from you is going to be interpreted as willful ignorance about the reality of my situation. If you literally have no idea (and if you haven’t seen me face to face in the last 4 months, you don’t), kindly keep your “advice”, “cheering up”, or any other form of platitudes to yourself.
I’m in survival mode, and that leaves nothing left over at the end of the day for nonsense.
The idea that selfies are narcissistic, especially for women. Firstly, so what if they are? Like the mental masturbation that you do to feel superior isn’t? Secondly, no they aren’t. Women putting themselves front and center with their own agenda is simply weird because they’ve never been allowed to do it before. Welcome to the future. It has filters.
Purity progressives. Fuck those guys. Guess what? We’re nowhere near a revolution, guys. And policy making equals compromise since the founding fathers. Who were no saints, by the way, but it WAS their lives on line at the time. It’s so great that you can pontificate from metropolitan cities where your wi-fi is fast, your food is slow, and your activism is a giant circle jerk with other pasty white people who try on “bi-curious” for size. How’s the air up there? Some people do real work. You might want to try it some time.
Getting older. I pulled a muscle in my sleep the other night. How the fuck does that happen??
“Devil’s Advocates”. Shut up. Just shut up. The devil is his own best advocate, okay? He gets around making his argument JUST FINE all on his own. It’s called life. You’re not an advocate, you’re a stinky troll. Go back under your rock.
People who don’t understand privilege. Really? C’mon, it’s part of the vernacular now and if you still don’t get it, it’s because you don’t want to get it. Privilege does NOT equal wealth or fame. Privilege DOES equal certain unearned “free passes” from daily struggles not shared by everyone. Privilege does NOT mean you’ve never had it rough. Privilege DOES mean that you could’ve had it rougher. Privilege does not mean you can’t vent, privilege does mean you might not want to vent about Starbucks being out of your favorite flavor to a single working mom drinking yesterday’s Folgers. Use some sense. Then use your privilege to speak up for those who don’t share it.
Women’s clothing industry sizing. SERIOUSLY GET IT TOGETHER GUYS!! MY WAIST HAS A MEASUREMENT AND SO DOES MY INSEAM. YOUR “12” IS BULLSHIT AND SO IS YOUR METHOD FOR SEWING ON BUTTONS.
Commercials. I’ve lived so long without network television that I forget how offensive they can be. And then Pepsi invades my internet news feed.
Divorce. FML, I really, really want to be over this. Hurry up already.
Selling things on Facebook. Nope. People are entitled, pushy assholes. Over it.
Living in “rural America”. Where the church folk are terrorists and anti-intellectualism reigns supreme. Look, hillbillies and rednecks, I’m sorry you are constantly picked on and made fun of by “liberal elites”. MAYBE STOP GIVING THEM SO MUCH MATERIAL TO WORK WITH, MMMMKAY?
But marches don’t. This article explains why in terms that are easy to understand, and it uses examples to support its view. (That’s a step in something called “logic” kids!) I marched anyway, along with an estimated 4.7 million people from every continent (yup, even Antarctica) because while marches don’t make lasting change they are a great starting point.
I marched in Springfield, MO with approximately 2,000 people – a huge number for a city of only 160,000 firmly settled on the bible belt. Almost dead last in a march that stretched at least a quarter mile, the positive energy was palpable all the way back there. I had goosebumps. That’s a physiological effect of being part of a mob, by the way, even a friendly mob. It wasn’t spiritual, but it was deeply affecting. I felt proud to be there, and proud to be marching with women and men. Unable to stay and listen to all the speakers, I drove home considering what it all meant.
There were no news cameras, though the local station says they had a photographer there and would present a segment in the evening. I never saw anyone doing any kind of coverage, and I was disappointed that the media wasn’t more visible. It felt silencing, and like a deliberate tactic to make us seem unimportant. I don’t like conspiracy theories so I won’t say that’s the absolute truth, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some truth to it. Pardon my cynicism, it comes with 41 years of being a woman on this planet.
Since I didn’t stay and see them personally, I can’t form an opinion on the speakers, but I did listen to our MO house representative, Crystal Quade, talk about the diversity of the speakers coming after her, and how important it was to remember that women of color and the LGBTQ community of women need to have a prominent place at the table. That we wouldn’t be successful without them. I was proud of that.
I wondered what to do next, and one of my (numerous, wonderful) friends posted a link to this:
which is a plan for 10 actions for Trump’s first 100 days in office. It’s simple, linear, and includes step-by-step instructions for the first action. It’s not overwhelming, even for the busiest among us, and I encourage everyone to participate. Especially if you couldn’t march – these are steps you can take with us. We can’t lose momentum, either out of ignorance or from hopelessness. This is a marathon, not a sprint.
That being said, I’ve also been thinking about causes I want to drill down to and focus on. So much is at risk, if I apply the same level of energy to everything, I will burn out in a matter of days. I don’t want to admit to caring more about some causes than others, but I simply have to prioritize because I’m human and have limits and I don’t want to give up. To that end, I think I’m going to focus on state-level legislation, and women’s issues. Women’s issues covers a lot, but I will probably be tackling health care and poverty mostly. I’m passionate about education, LGBTQ equality and dismantling racism, but honestly there are more qualified people out there to harp on those subjects. I’m not giving up on those ideas, I just won’t be devoting my precious free time to being a watchdog over those issues. I’m making a promise right now that when I post about an issue, it will be because I’ve done my homework on it, and you can trust me as a source. (With the obvious caveat that nothing replaces personal research, but I’ll not be posting anything without reading it completely and verifying with at least one source that is not the first return on a Google search.)
My year is off to an incredible start, and I mean that almost literally. It’s almost impossible to believe that I am a full time student, will make a drive halfway across the country and back, will move, will watch my daughter graduate college and start her career, and will become an activist for real. And that’s just the first six months.
It might be a roller coaster, but at least I volunteered to get on this one.
What’s a New Year’s Day without the obligatory goals post? Of course, we’re all so busy sharing our goals that we’re not looking at anyone else’s, but that’s okay. It’s a vast internet and this is going to be more a reference point, anyway.
School starts in 16 days. I am unemployed. There are numerous appointments this month I must keep. (Remind me to update the calendar in my phone.) I have to get serious about tying all my social media together so I can start to diversify my revenue streams and make myself available to alternate sources of income. This blog will likely take on a new look, as I no longer have the luxury of paying for space to ramble. I’ll keep my domain, but in addition to my personal posts, there will be pages and/or posts devoted to my creative work, as well. Exciting stuff, but also intimidating.
I had my first paying photography gig last week, and it went really well. Portrait photography isn’t something I have a lot of experience with yet, but I may have found my niche among people who aren’t typically well served in this part of the country. Same with my embroidery art – I love to dot a fabric canvas with flowers, but add some socially conscious imagery or verbiage and suddenly I become a subversive crafter. Which probably doesn’t mean much in places like my hometown in northern California, but here in southwestern Missouri? Yeah, it creates a stir. Looking forward to capitalizing on that, if I can.
If 2016 was the home of my darkest moments, then 2017 promises to be the impetus of my forward momentum. I’ve never found the changing of the calendar year to be particularly significant, but even I have to admit that the symbolic shedding of last year’s misery is affecting. Being forced to wait during long, slow, tortuous lulls in my journey effected me in ways I’m still identifying. But all of the things I had to wait for are coming at me now – not so fast that I’ll miss them, but quickly enough to keep me eagle-eyed and limber over home plate, waiting to catch whatever comes next. Thanks for watching this game with me. It’s about to get exciting!
It’s 7:00 a.m. and I am getting ready to go to the gym. As soon as I finish my coffee so I can poop first. This is my life at 39 (and three-quarters) – held hostage to the schedule of my intestines. Believe me, no one is more surprised than I am.
The gym, I long thought, was for young, svelte, fitness freaks who look like they model part time for Nike. (And if they don’t, how in the hell can they afford workout clothes? One pair of Lyrca/Spandex pants cost me $50! Don’t even get me started on sports bras – I’ll get to that in a minute.) Even when I was young and svelte, I didn’t think much of exercise and Nike can just bugger right off with its infamous marketing tagline. NOBODY TELLS ME TO JUST DO ANYTHING. But age and boredom and the 14 breaks I have to take on the stairs to carry my laundry into the basement have convinced me that perhaps I should re-evaluate my stance on fitness.
I use the gym on a military installation. It’s free, it’s local, it’s well-equipped. And on a good day, I can snag the recumbent bike overlooking the free weight room and get a show with my workout. Yes, I’m watching them. They don’t seem to notice, being preoccupied, as they are, with watching themselves. That place is a hall of mirrors, taking muscles on a psychedelic trip through geometry. Groovy, man.
But I’ve mostly overcome the idea that anyone is watching me. If anyone is looking at me wheeze and melt through one lousy mile on the eliptical, I don’t think they’re actually noticing. They’re too busy striding magnificently on a steeply inclined treadmill, chest out, chin up, arms pumping furiously in full on Forrest Gump mode, no doubt imagining themselves running to the top of Mount Olympus to take their rightful place among the ancient Greek pantheon. I sincerely doubt they’re concerned about the pond of sweat that’s sloshing around in that little flat tray beneath my control panel. What’s that for, anyway?
The more often I go, the more I reward myself with the accessories that help me forget I’m going to the gym. Wireless earphones. Blue-tooth enabled iPod to listen to on the wireless earphones. New music specifically designed to keep your heart rate above that of a nervous hamster. Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m supposed to be listening or convulsing. It works, though. I rarely find myself dropping back down to Leisurely Stroll Through the Park speeds. I’m trying to outrun the riot of 20-somethings that are attempting to have a rave in my ears. Are those still a thing, raves? I’ll tell you right now, if anyone breaks out glowsticks and a pacifier, I’m taking up shuffleboard.
I’m a largish gal. Squishy, you might say. Containing it all is a challenge for the most experienced of athletic brands, and they charge dearly for the privilege of carrying my boobs over the course of an hour. I have yet to find a sports bra that doesn’t get hung up on my back fat, making stripping off after the gym an exercise unto itself. Somewhere around the five-minute mark, after I’ve pulled 18 muscles in my neck I didn’t know I had, dislocating my shoulder and somehow punching myself in the nose with my elbow, I wonder if crime scene investigators will even suspect that the pitiful tangle of sweat-soaked Lyrca was actually the murderer. “The house appeared to be empty at the time of death, Sergeant, probably a suicide… Wait, what is this… AAAAH, IT’S GOT ME, SIR! IT’S WRAPPING AROUND MY NECK AND BLLLLAAAARGH… help!…” Why hasn’t anyone made this movie yet? There is nothing more horrifying than the prospect of removing a sweaty sports bra.
I have not lost a single ounce in the six weeks I’ve been going to the gym. My clothes fit exactly the same as before, and I would take up precisely as much room on a bus seat as I did before, if I took the bus. I told myself I was utterly unconcerned with losing weight when I started, and it has become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I’m a little disappointed. Looks like my dream career of booth babe at Comic Con is more out of reach than ever. ::sigh:: But I no longer take 14 breaks on the stairs to the basement. Last weekend I performed TWO chores outside in the yard (in Missouri. in August) and survived. And I think I may have passed some kind of fitness threshold when I started laughing maniacally halfway through my workout the other day. I like to think it was an endorphin rush and not my new pants giving me a wedgie.