I am 46. Fuck. How did that happen? When did I move to the other side of the mountain? When did I become my mother? When did I become the mom who knows nothing? When did I become the bitchy wife? When did I become 40 and pissed off?
“I’m getting that lonely, sinking feeling,
you know what I mean?” …
Just when I think I’ve uncovered the secret
to peace and tranquility
that lonely sinking feeling creeps up on me …
It wasn’t when I just turned 40. I mean that was bad, but I still felt 36, and there were plenty of hot actresses in their 40s to compare myself to, so I still felt young.
It wasn’t when I turned 42 because I still looked young enough for most people to think I was in my 30s, so I was good. I still felt young enough to follow whatever path I wanted to follow whether that was to have another child or choose a new career or move to a new city or do that “Eat, Pray, Love” thing. I still felt young enough. I mean my mom was 43, almost 44 when I was born. So there was still time to be young.
It wasn’t when I was 43, but that lonely, sinking feeling began creeping up on me. That’s when the Cowboy Junkies started playing like a fucking broken record in my brain.
Just when I think I’ve uncovered the secret
to peace and tranquility
that lonely sinking feeling creeps up on me …
44. That’s when my patience began waning. That’s when I decided it was time to start doing something for me, myself and I. That’s when I decided to take stock of what makes me happy. I still didn’t have complete freedom to rent a convertible, grab an overnight bag and take off into the sunset—I couldn’t, my kids were young—but I wanted to. I wanted to get in the car, back out of the driveway and drive. Just drive and keep driving. I didn’t care about a destination, but Cape Cod was on my mind. I had no clue what I would do when I got there, but I knew I had to stop wasting time. I had to stop dealing with people that wasted my time. I had to stop having discussions about things that wasted my time. I had to stop wasting time. I had to stop complaining about the same shit I’d been complaining about for a decade. I had to go balls out.
That’s when Cowboy Junkies made my top 10 list again. The last time I’d regularly listened to them I was 24. My god what passion. Where was my passion? Where was my bravery? Where was my clarity? I’m too hard on myself. I know that. But it doesn’t make it any easier to live with. To accept who I am and where I am, along the path of life. The 40s have been a challenge. I’m not even pre-menopausal, so I don’t have that excuse. No, I’m just 40-ish and pissed off. Pissed off that time feels like it’s running out. Pissed off that half my life is over (assuming I live until I’m really old). Pissed off that I’ve screwed around. I feel like I’m at a crossroads. Wondering where I will go from here. Wondering if I’m following my destiny or if fear somehow led me to someone else’s destiny. Wondering when the simple things in life will be enough. If they will be enough.
“I’m getting that lonely, sinking feeling,
you know what I mean?” …
Just when I think I’ve uncovered the secret
to peace and tranquility
that lonely sinking feeling creeps up on me …
I am irritated, confused, disenchanted, hopeful, angry, annoyed, quiet, tired. I am 46 and pissed off. Tick Tock.
