I have never walked the cobbled streets of Paris in the rain or sipped tea beneath the Russian sky. I have seen Right Whales frolic in the open sea and I have watched as an Alaskan seal basked in the cold sunshine of an August afternoon. I have been to school and I have worked for a living. Now I am writing for me, from my heart and from my dreams. What I do not understand I approach with words and hope understanding creeps from my fingertips.
Words are ephemeral. By their very nature they are flitting by easily washed away. The goal, I believe, of every writer is to have their words invoke a feeling, a memory, something that will last.
The written word should have a vibrant life but if no one reads your words do they matter?
For almost 4 years I wrote a short story once a month for the residents of a retirement home. For more than eight years I have been writing a newsletter for the people who live in my apartment building. I guess writing a blog was inevitable. At least that’s how it was presented to me. I started writing in University as an English major. 30 or 40 essays a semester you get into a habit. I enjoy writing. And I enjoy sharing what I have written.
I have witnessed more than a half of a century passing. I have been an integral component in the passing of that time that I have witnessed. Okay so I haven’t created anything incredible, or found a cure for anything tangible, or left an indelible mark anywhere. But bloody hell I had a great time doing it!
I was born more than 50 years ago. I had a mother and a father and two older siblings: a brother and a sister. I still have the siblings, and I have also gained a brother-in-law, a nephew, a myriad of wonderful friends and non-blood related relatives. I am significantly taller, relatively heavier and only slightly more outspoken. Evidently when I was a child I had a set of lungs in me that demanded to be heard. I have had some fun times, some sad times, and even some incredible times. And that makes me a pretty incredible person even if I am the only one that thinks so. Forgive me if I appear a little arrogant but I’m pretty sure there are other people out there who think I’m pretty incredible too. Now here’s a wonderful thing about reaching 50: I don’t have to pretend to be humble! I like presents and I like compliments and I’m not ashamed to admit it. So there! My goal in life (today anyway) is to work towards becoming a rich, cranky old bitch. Now the ‘cranky’ I pretty well have down pat. The ‘bitch’? Yeah I pretty much have that down too. Now of course the ‘old’ part is inevitable and I am well on my way. As for the ‘rich’ bit? I buy my lottery tickets and I lose. Life would be no fun if we got everything we wanted. But still we keep trying.
Something else I have discovered as I grew older: other people’s opinions are less important. That was a surprise to me. All my life and I am sure I’m not the only one who was this way, what other people thought was of paramount importance. I guess I wanted to be liked; I wanted to be important to other people. Now it’s not that I don’t care at all, but it’s just that my opinion is more important to me. Isn’t that silly!
I like people. I like me. I sometimes go down the street with a silly grin on my face. It is a beautiful day, I had a wonderful thought or maybe for absolutely no rationale at all. You see it doesn’t matter. I feel as though I have been liberated! I am 50, I am fabulous and I’m having an incredible life. You cannot reign on my parade because I have an umbrella! Okay so back to me.
I have a few wrinkles on my face but only a few and I earned every single one of them. So I’m very proud of them. People say I don’t look my age and I would love to take credit for that. But I cannot. Like any lazy person I mistreated my skin by omission. I guess I just got lucky. I didn’t use expensive creams on my face because they were, well, expensive and way too much work. So I credit my youthful skin to my parent’s DNA.
I guess in every perfect life there is always a fly in the ointment. Mine is an itty-bitty incurable disease called multiple sclerosis. MS does not control my life, it is simply a part of my life. It does not define who I am it is merely part of the definition. We all have personal issues, mine just happens to be very apparent. The wheelchair is a dead give-away But I am still the woman I always wanted to be, except I’m not as skinny or as tall as the image in my head. In my mind’s eye I’m drop dead gorgeous!
What Do the 50s Look Like?
Well, actually, 50 looks like me, and perhaps you. Fifty is a successful business woman who owns her own company and does business in the millions every year. Fifty is a grandmother out with her first grandchild. Fifty is the woman who is about to enter her third body building contest. Fifty is the proud mother preparing her child for university and thinking of joining him next year.
Fifty is a number that has no power except that which we give it. I look forward to each and every day because every moment is a treasure to be thoroughly exploited. And I mean that in the nicest possible way. Cheers!