Ten

Yesterday was the ten-year anniversary of the first time I met Mr. X.  We've been long distance almost this entire time, but there's almost a fondness in looking back at the time that separation was only by 150 miles.

For the past six months or so, since the last time I saw him, there's been a sort of litany of disaster at both ends of the extreme distance between us.  Nobody's happy, and he in particular has got a crap deal.  I've got looming issues beyond my control - but, during the past week, have been pushing back hard on what I can.  Gaining steam at work.  Gaining ground with Penelope's training.  Planning Thanksgiving with my neighbor and a friend of hers, organizing some things, looking out toward the holidays, hopefully looking at installing a fence in the backyard.

Tonight, I will take myself out in celebration.  I haven't been "dating" myself in a long time ... and yet, it's still a part of who I am.  I've just been, frankly, a bit too depressed.  Even last week, a charming acquaintance said we should meet out, and I ended up stewing in my middle-aged-overweight-lady juices, staying home and watching "Dinner at Eight."

A good movie - but an opportunity missed.

Tonight, I seize opportunity, dust myself off, make myself shiny, and see who's out even if last week's friend isn't guaranteed.  Maybe I will dance, in impractical shoes.

Tonight, I celebrate ten years of what loving X has made of me.

Wiz(ard)om From My Ex

Quote of the day:

I'm so old, if this were the middle ages, I'd be a wizard.

Hee.

Wrongers

A short observation about a trend of which the Stupid Naming Business is only one representative symptom:

The older I get, the more I find people essentially telling me "You're doing it wrong" about, basically, life itself.  It appears to be related to my never having remarried, had kids, done the thing we're all "supposed" to do, so there gets to be more and more instruction for me the farther down the road I get.  What's interesting is that this isn't coming from my family (nor from X), but from friends and mere acquaintances.  There's been a sharp, clear, and precipitous drop in people's estimation of my competency since I (successfully, not for nothing) passed forty.  (Subtext here:  "alone" - because that's means something is broken somehow, and I guess I must be presumed to have done the damage.)

One or two of these happen to be the sort who find opinionated people (and being opinionated) invigorating or bracing.

The older I get, the less "invigorating" opinions are to me.  I prefer courage, conviction, and energy spent on being interested and interesting.  By a stunningly wide margin.


***


There is a LOT about me that seems to set people on edge.  Women who use the term secretary non-ironically freak people out.  Middle aged women living on their own bug people.  I never liked the idea I was getting to people simply by existing, but the longer I do it the more palpable other people's discomfort over my perceived failures (non-conformity, thank you) becomes.

Oddly enough, I'm a bit like Douglas Adams' money:  "On the whole, it wasn't the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy."

But my movements increasingly concern people who have no say (and no stake) in my lifestyle.  And sometimes, THEY get to ME.  What a lot of wasted, and yet far too eagerly generated, negative energy.

Becoming A Tiny Bit More

I've had a harder time learning not to wish my life away, getting past the part that's happening - to the "good" part ... ahem - but age has settled itself nicely into the role of persuader on this point.

Ahh

Well, that's done, and there's still sun. A clot of kids are sitting on the corner of the lot; earlier today, I saw the girls out there doing yoga. Not in my yard: on the actual road. The way the road is curved (an archaeologist of my aquaintance says "these roads are BUILT to shed water!") I think must make the back bends they were doing comfortable. And they were on the less-trafficked portion of the intersection; so I didn't go all middle-aged homeowner-lady and go outside to shoo them off because they were unsafe. These kids have known my dog most of their lives. My role, to them, is to be Siddy's mom, a largely unidentifiable appendage to the awesome dog.

I watched the back-bending for a minute, and remembered my own childhood playing on the asphalt at another corner not so very far away from here. Maybe roller-skating. Maybe popping tar bubbles with my thumb. Maybe just touching the rust of the manhole cover, or the rim of the sewer's opening. I was half these girls' age, and my protector was watching me. I let the girls get fit, and felt the heat of the asphalt in my memory, in my mind. I could imagine the slant of that water-shedding curve. I smiled like the middle-aged broad that I am, and finished the dusting. Not like I haven't done far weirder things, and sometimes every bit as publicly. I dork-dance in grocery store aisles. I don't want to see inhibition clamp down.

And now the house is clean, and Type O is playing with a tinny echo on my laptop, and I'm going to pull off my shoes soon and start removing polish and filing and buffing. And probably BuffY-ing, watching the final two eps of Season 2 while the pampering begins. But first, another post. And now a bit of TSOL. Heh. Sounds of laughter, indeed - like a child, so young and carefree. You forgot to add a lyric about yoga, asphalt, and clear sunlight, guys ...