Posts Tagged ‘aging’

I’m not sleeping.

I’m not sleeping so the boogy men are coming out to tromp on my self-worth, pick at the dark circles, the wrinkles, the… I go out, try to sit quietly amongst the clans of gabby lunch goers, drink my coffee. I am trying to take in what they have without being overwhelmed by it. It’s a real oil and water ordeal.

I go out, try to sit quietly amongst the clans of gabby lunch goers.

When I don’t sleep, I don’t get up, because come morning I’ve already been up a dozen times in the night, my head feels heavier than a pumpkin, it throbs and creaks like an old porch door,  and the pillow feels softer than it is. The bed feels like a safe raft. Zephyr comes up and lies beside me. I can press my head against his warm, breathing fur. It helps quiet it all.

The bed feels like a safe raft.

When I rise finally, I start comparing. All my lacks against all their strides–you know, “them.” I am falling behind, even when I am making small steps to get ahead. They feel like they are never enough. For every step up I make, I fall back a flight of stairs.  The bruises are adding up.  

For every step up I make, I fall back a flight of stairs.  The bruises are adding up.

It’s difficult being alone, because there is no one to lean on, to wrap their arms around me, counter attack my negative grocery list. I have to be my own blanket, my own healer, my own everything. I spend a lot of time battling good against evil in my head. It’s exhausting.

The only thing I know to do is start over, again and again and again.  

As I sit here, my laundry list grows longer and I watch it unfurl like ticker tape. It is mesmerizing.


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I had a bit of meltdown last week. I got busted by the dog catcher, & Zephyr had a small scare from eating too much grass at the river.  A trip to the vet, some “as-long-as-you’re-here” blood work, some slightly scary news, but nothing frantic, immediate, just a real wake-up call that Zephyr is indeed getting old. I can’t bear the thought, but then I’m getting older too.


My time on Twitter has brought me–us–a very sweet new friend. Although we’ve never met face-to-face, she’s just the kindest person. She watched my meltdown, my nervous freak out that Zephyr was getting old & I just couldn’t bear or stop the clock! (insert panic).

Today, I got a surprise package in the mail from her: “Old Dogs are the best dogs“. The photos would make the most stoic soul weep. I’ve already reached for the Kleenex, twice.

Thank you Suzanne. You have a very big heart,

d, xo

Zephyr, not really interested in the photo, so much as the taste of the book, gave it a lick. At just about 12 years old, he is moving into the spry, yet senior, citizen department.  Although very distinguished, that muzzle used to be very dark.

Forgive that leash. I hate it. He hates it, but he’s been wandering off a bit. I find him standing out on the front lawn or the neighbor’s back yard. Not horrible, but a few weeks ago he crossed the street and the leash came out. We’re still adjusting.

After a nice walk this morning and meeting quite a few dogs along the way to play with, Zephyr is sprawled out on the cool pavement. The temperature is supposed to be 80 degrees today. We don’t do heat very well. I like big blue skies, but we both like chilly weather. We should move back to the beach.

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My birthday is in less than 48 hours & as it never seems to deviate, I am woefully sad. I look in the mirror and I just don’t recognize these seemingly sudden changes in my face, my neck, the hollowness. The furrows are deeper, my skin feels thinner.

I don’t know what to do with this face. I don’t know what to say to it, other than I’m sorry. I’m here for you. Tell me what to do.

This number is staggering, 47. I have repeated it so many times today, it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore, forty-seven, forty-seven, forty-seven. I can no longer hedge a “I’m 40-ish”, I can barely say I’m in my 40s.

 When I hear on the news that a woman was “forty-seven” I think, oh she was older, middle-aged, past children, past marriage even, on her second husband, her last husband, nearing the end of her career. She was done for, anyway.

It’s morose, I know. I am a fatalist by genetics, coming from a centuries worth of hand-ringing women, deep gullies between their brows, tragic sorrows behind their perfectly manicured smiles, that have repeated, “I’m good,” thank you. “I am fine,” so many times it’s a deeply etched mantra not even they could pin-point if they had the will to try.

Yet, I am also hopeful–I say defensively. How else would I go on, if I wasn’t?

It’s just that there are so many things I think I want, things that I believe would make me happier: a lover, a husband– a bigger garden, a house, another dog, better clothes, more money, a vacation for two, dinner parties for intimate friends. Something!


I never wanted children. Never. And that shocks people, especially women, tremendously, but it’s true. I had what I thought was my true love once and he had proposed in a very offhand way that I was too enraptured with to see. I saw us marrying on the beach, a small ceremony. I thought I could love this man forever and I would have his child, because that was what love created. But he left. He changed his mind and left. And I never let myself that close to anyone again.

Oh, there were lovers and hopeful keepers, I suppose, but never quite the right one. I saw to that myself.

Now, seventeen years later I am forty-seven and I wonder if there is anyone left for me, anyone who will look at me that way, who could know me, laugh with me just that way. Someone, I could adore and conspire with as much we once did. I often think it is just too late.

I also know that this mantra is only true if I hold onto it–and I have like fishing twine wrapped tightly around my hand over and over. It’s cut off my circulation & bled me to the bone, but I sometimes want to believe I can still unravel it, mend it, if there’s still time.

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