me at 45
Today I turned 45.
I’ve never texted the letters “lol” or seen an episode of LOST. I have no idea who I am supposed to idolize, who is dancing with whom and I don’t care a fig about Indian food.
I don’t read trash, but I don’t read Tolstoy - I don’t even read anything in between. I’m sort of on the fringe, reading crazy stuff nobody else reads, and I love it when math explains the universe - when it stops being the hard stuff I’m bad at and somehow turns into poetry - i love reading that stuff.
You can’t really tell what my “style” is by looking at me. On any given day I’m just wearing whatever I have, well, whatever I have that’s clean - or mostly clean. I’d like to have loads of great clothes, but right now I don’t, and it’s fine - turns out none of my friends care.
When I was 23 a dozen roses delivered in front of my work friends made me feel loved. Today nothing makes my world more right than the cup of coffee I have every morning with my husband. Real romance is the way he makes sure the oil in the jeep gets changed and that the tires are safe. And nothing is better than gassing up the car for me each week. These things make me feel loved everyday - not just on my birthday.
My job is OK - it doesn’t define me; what I do isn’t who I am. What I do is simply the way I get money to do the things I want to do. It’s full time salary for part time hours - and that rocks out loud because it means that I get to be there every afternoon to pick up our son from school, help with homework and nag him endlessly to clean his room/pick up his backpack/move his skateboard/wear his helmet and on and on and I love him.
I might be a quitter - or maybe I get bored easily - or maybe someday I actually will complete all of the things I’ve started. If that ever actually happens, people will probably genuflect when they see me - or maybe just whistle.
So, I’m 45 and I think I’m fine with that.
I’ve never texted the letters “lol” or seen an episode of LOST. I have no idea who I am supposed to idolize, who is dancing with whom and I don’t care a fig about Indian food.
I don’t read trash, but I don’t read Tolstoy - I don’t even read anything in between. I’m sort of on the fringe, reading crazy stuff nobody else reads, and I love it when math explains the universe - when it stops being the hard stuff I’m bad at and somehow turns into poetry - i love reading that stuff.
You can’t really tell what my “style” is by looking at me. On any given day I’m just wearing whatever I have, well, whatever I have that’s clean - or mostly clean. I’d like to have loads of great clothes, but right now I don’t, and it’s fine - turns out none of my friends care.
When I was 23 a dozen roses delivered in front of my work friends made me feel loved. Today nothing makes my world more right than the cup of coffee I have every morning with my husband. Real romance is the way he makes sure the oil in the jeep gets changed and that the tires are safe. And nothing is better than gassing up the car for me each week. These things make me feel loved everyday - not just on my birthday.
My job is OK - it doesn’t define me; what I do isn’t who I am. What I do is simply the way I get money to do the things I want to do. It’s full time salary for part time hours - and that rocks out loud because it means that I get to be there every afternoon to pick up our son from school, help with homework and nag him endlessly to clean his room/pick up his backpack/move his skateboard/wear his helmet and on and on and I love him.
I might be a quitter - or maybe I get bored easily - or maybe someday I actually will complete all of the things I’ve started. If that ever actually happens, people will probably genuflect when they see me - or maybe just whistle.
So, I’m 45 and I think I’m fine with that.