“Thinking
outside of the box” has to be one of my least favorite sayings (along with
pre-planning and “I’m not disagreeing with you but…”). However, I dearly wanted
to think outside of the box a few days ago when I had to make that fateful leap
of checking the box for 35-39 instead of 30-34. It was just some stupid survey
but if it hadn't been my laptop, I might have thrown it to the floor and run
out screaming.
I already
had the feeling that I was headed for my three-eighths life crisis. As a sign
of how loony I had become, I sat down and actually figured that since I am possibly
now somewhere between one-third and mid-life crises, that I likely at the three-eighth
stage. Since I’m not a balding male, this crisis has not involved purchasing a
sports car or taking up some sort of extreme sport. On the more feminine side,
this crisis has not (yet) involved a major or even minor plastic surgery
purchase or juice fast.
As far as I
can tell, this particular crisis just involves a lot of thought of the number
35. I see it as these looming numbers, 100 feet tall and made out of something
like concrete, and about to crush me like a bug. Images of what I thought my
life would be like by the age of 35 have been fairly persistent too. No, not
the thoughts that you have when you’re 5 years old and 35 seems ancient. But
how in high school, when we had to fill out those things with where we thought
we’d be in 10, 15, 20 years’ time.
I actually
saw my senior year book with all those thoughts written out not too long ago. I
thought that by 35 I’d be married, have at least one kid, and be happier with
my weight and body image. I actually did write that out – I didn’t write that I
wanted to be skinny, but that I wanted to be a healthy weight and be happy with
my appearance.
As I tried
to remind myself with my last post, I have in fact achieved that last bit. Sure
I could stand to lose a few pounds so that my jeans were a little more comfortable,
but I’m about 35 lbs lighter than I was in high school. I guess one out of
three ain’t bad because unless I meet a guy, get knocked up, and have a baby in
the next 11 months and 19 days, I will exit the age of 35 without having
fulfilled the first two parts of what I thought I’d be by the age of 35.
It’s not that
this number has me thinking about running back to online dating sites (although
some have serious potential at least for unitqueness/hilarity/mortification/physical
endangerment like SeaCaptain Date, FarmersOnly, and the Ayn Rand Dating Site).
Nor do I feel the need to hit the sperm bank and pick out a donor. It just
feels a little weird. Like there’s some great big “to do” list out there and
not only have I not done the things on them, but may never do those things. And
I might be okay with that.
Don’t get
me wrong there are some days when I am decidedly not okay with the idea. But by
and large, these things usually don’t weigh on my brain for days on end. Until
35.
By the time
my mom was my age, she had 5 kids and was 8 years away from having moi. Crap,
by the time my mom was like 28 or 30, she had 5 kids. However, she had 5 kids
before she ever had a house of her own whereas I’ve had my own little abode for
about 7 years now. She had also never worked outside of the home and to this
day never worked outside of the home, whereas I’ve been gainfully, if at times
unhappily, employed for 13 years. And although I have no kids of my own, I’m
the proud aunt of some damn find nieces and nephews, and honorary “Auntie A” to
a few kids that are so cute, they could get away with murder, or at least tying
my hair into knots or pounding on my stomach when we play “salon” or “hospital.”
But still,
35? I don’t feel 35. I still feel like an idiot teenager who has no idea what
to do with her life and keeps hoping someone will show up and make the decision
for her. I still plot out the tattoo that I’ve been planning on getting for
about 10 years or so, were it not for my crippling fear of needles and pain. I
still drink milk from the carton sometimes or have too many beers or take a nap
when I know I should be cleaning or doing something productive.
They say
age is just a state of mind. My favoritest boss in the world is somewhere
around 73 years of age and he still works the schedule of a person younger than
me and with a fire in his belly that I think will prevent him from retiring.
Yet I know people my age who live like their best years are behind them.
When I look
at Charlie, I can see more grey in his muzzle, but he still runs around like a
pup. So even though some of those lines around my eyes and mouth aren’t going
away and I fear its past time to call up the stylist and touch up my roots, I
will try to run around, not like a teenager as I don’t think I can take the
angst and emotional turmoil, but maybe like a 24 year old. The time when you’ve had to
live a bit on your own but you can still remember the last time you woke up
with your head in the toilet, although you may wish you couldn’t. When life
seemed like an array of endless possibilities, nothing decided, nothing set in stone.
And on that
note, I gotta get moving as I’m going to a concert soon with a friend from
college. We’re going to see Dar Williams, a singer/songwriter I first saw in
concert when I was 18 and she came to my college. Afterward, she went out with
a few of us to a diner for late night pancakes and philosophical discussions. I
saw her again I think around my senior year and then a few years after
graduation. So my Brendala-friendala and I will grab an early dinner, hit the early
show, and maybe grab a beer before she heads home to the kidlets and
love-muffin hubs and I head home to Charlie who will probably get to hear me
singing off-key to one of the more apropos Dar songs, “You’re Aging Well.”
