At Least They're Committed

Not likely. More like post-nativital complacency. I haven’t done a damn thing the past several days but think. Think, think, think. I wish I could stop my mind from twisting, shifting, conjecturing, analyzing and contemplating. I wonder if it’s aging me; if thought is power, I’m using mine up way too quickly. Now, if I were a man, I wouldn’t have this problem, would I? If I were a man I’d look in the mirror and say, ‘oh, yeah baby, not bad!’ and ignore the crow’s feet and the fading chin line. I’d be like my last stalker and think that if I dye my hair nobody will notice that I’m on the back side of the halfway point. It wouldn’t even occur to me that people are looking at me weird and wondering if the young thing I’m hanging with is looking for a sugar daddy or if she’s my offspring. No, if I were a man none of that would matter at all because I’d be blissfully oblivious of — and impervious to — scrutiny. As it is, as a woman, here I am still trying to find my place in this world and I’m afraid I’m not doing a very good job of it. I brought three beautiful — well, maybe four — lives into this world who bring me great joy. But that’s their story, not mine. As Kahlil Gibran (sp?) says, “Your children come not from you but through you.” Anyway, on one hand I’m extremely fortunate to have friends of all ages who inspire me and enable me to be myself; who seem to truly enjoy who I am and appreciate that I appreciate them so very much. But I’m troubled that I can’t sit in the bar with the 30-somethings without wondering if I look awkward in their midst. If the waitresses and the guys checking me out wonder whether I’m trying to cleave fruitlessly to my youth or feed off that of my friends. It’s  neither, of course. Spirits are ageless and I’m proud of each day I’ve spent on this Earth. It’s not been all that easy. I know very well I ought to simply delight in the company I keep and in myself for being deep and astute enough to recognize beauty where it truly lies. In addition to that, let’s look at the old black and whites of my grandparents — even my parents — at this age. I might not look ‘young’ but I certainly look good and I’m wildly healthy. True, nobody would confuse me for Lily’s sister, but I was 27 when I had her, for Christ’s sake. Moosie says stuff such as, “If you were a guy at this age looking for a job you’d still get hired if you were as hot as you are.” I’m good at my job and I love the people I work with. I have a beautiful house that is more than I’d ever hoped for, and I still do in fact look 28 from about 20 feet away (heh). Really, it is enough. It IS enough, even though I feel like checking out sometimes and that I’ve been around too long. Yeah, yeah. I think I’m OK, in fact I think I’m doing good and by most people’s standards, I just might be doing great. So there I have it. It’s nearly 2008 and all I want to change is our debt-to-income ratio (for the better). I think I’m not so restless as I think I am. I think maybe I’m happy with who I am and where I’m at right now. I think I’m good and will stay good . . . until the next time I’m in the bar sitting with the 30-somethings wondering if I look awkward in their midst and if the waitresses and the guys checking me out wonder whether I’m trying to cleave fruitlessly to my youth or feed off that of my friends . . . eh, let ’em wonder. I might be the only one who’s noticed, but I am JUST A LITTLE GIRL!