Underneath that fire is my birthday cake. I'm 47 today. Good God.
When I was 7, I thought that 47 was ancient. Anyone who was 47 wore thick glasses, was covered with liver spots, and required a walker just to get down the hall to the toilet. But most of the time, I didn't think about being 47. I preferred to think about Christmas, the tooth fairy, cooties, and Barbies.
At 21, I thought that 47 was pretty damn old. I thought that if there was anything I wanted to do with my life, I had better accomplish it before I was 45. I assumed life was all downhill from 21. Of course, at 21 I had huge hair; wore acid washed, pleated jeans that came up to my boobs, thought playing "quarters" was the heighth of fun and sophistication, and spent all my money on beer and posters.
So, here I am at 47. I still haven't figured out what to do with my life. My 19-year-old nieces have been smarter than I am for the past 6 years. My daughter stopped counting my gray hairs a couple of years ago. I'm starting to act like my mother.
What's next for me (aside from yet another birthday)? I feel like I'm in one of those old western movies -- plodding down the road, canteen empty, horizon empty, heat coming in waves off the desert sand (menopause?), buzzards circling.
Jeez. What is 48 going to look like? Will the buzzards have landed?
Hopefully I will be happier tomorrow once I've got a birthday dinner (and wine) under my belt.
I see myself as an artist. Others see me as a housewife. Too often, I see the glass as half-full. With a crack in it. I am usually a quiet, shy person. This is the place where I can be my inner, not-so-quiet self.
This blog is for entertainment (mostly mine) purposes only. If you find a mistake, falsehood, or blatant lie, please feel free to inform me, ever so gently, of my error.