Despite television commercials to the contrary, you’re not a disease.
You’re a lightening rod. Women your age say, my god you look great. They sound resentful. Women who are older than you say, old? wait till you’re my age, then you can talk about old. They sound angry. Women who are younger say, no, sixty-eight? no you’re not sixty-eight. They sound afraid.
You belong to a sorority they don't want to join.
You’re a psychology project. But you're the wrong project in the wrong laboratory. You’re basic research in an age of applied research. You contribute knowledge, but the funding goes to those who solve problems. The powers that be demand answers; you ponder questions.
You’ve outlived your pragmatism.
You’re a pharmacological experiment. You ingest polysyllabic chemicals and all-natural/organic/non-gmo supplements, proven (by some) to cure your ailment, proven (by others) to result in death, proven by (still others) to improve your condition.
You develop conditions you can neither spell nor pronounce.
You’re looking for a mentor, but you suspect sixty-eight is too old to be looking for a mentor.
You’re a traveler. Where are you?
Where’s your tribe? You struggle to make your own way, until you find them. You admire the out-loud in-your-face high-style tribe, but it's not yours. You're tempted to march with the revolutionary tribe, but you don't belong there, either. Your coven proves difficult to locate, close at hand, but incognito. You need to persevere in this search. You need to belong to someone, because basic research says isolation is deadly for the elderly.
You hear too much, the way a friend says the family across the street is black, but she’s never said the other family across the street is white. The way a friend says gay man, but he's never said straight man. You see things. You see the difference between kind and tolerant. A friend across the table is speaking kind words, but his eyes are counting the seconds until it’s his turn to talk about himself. Are your own eyes kind? Your skin is prickly, sensing that you are too often the one counting down until it’s your turn to talk about you.
You’ve seen better days. You’re a sight for sore eyes.
You’re a paradox. Now that you have less time remaining, you’re more generous with it. Now that you've accumulated more knowledge, you see the wisdom of keeping it to yourself. Now that you have more to say, you crave silence. Now that your opinions are stronger, you believe them less. Now that you’re more confident, you seek humility.
You’re a menagerie. Cougar. War horse. Hen. You eat like a bird.
You’re a crone: a rare old bird. Your connection to the earth has grown spindly. You’re prone to solitary flight.
You’re a lightening rod. Women your age say, my god you look great. They sound resentful. Women who are older than you say, old? wait till you’re my age, then you can talk about old. They sound angry. Women who are younger say, no, sixty-eight? no you’re not sixty-eight. They sound afraid.
You belong to a sorority they don't want to join.
You’re a psychology project. But you're the wrong project in the wrong laboratory. You’re basic research in an age of applied research. You contribute knowledge, but the funding goes to those who solve problems. The powers that be demand answers; you ponder questions.
You’ve outlived your pragmatism.
You’re a pharmacological experiment. You ingest polysyllabic chemicals and all-natural/organic/non-gmo supplements, proven (by some) to cure your ailment, proven (by others) to result in death, proven by (still others) to improve your condition.
You develop conditions you can neither spell nor pronounce.
You’re looking for a mentor, but you suspect sixty-eight is too old to be looking for a mentor.
You’re a traveler. Where are you?
Where’s your tribe? You struggle to make your own way, until you find them. You admire the out-loud in-your-face high-style tribe, but it's not yours. You're tempted to march with the revolutionary tribe, but you don't belong there, either. Your coven proves difficult to locate, close at hand, but incognito. You need to persevere in this search. You need to belong to someone, because basic research says isolation is deadly for the elderly.
You hear too much, the way a friend says the family across the street is black, but she’s never said the other family across the street is white. The way a friend says gay man, but he's never said straight man. You see things. You see the difference between kind and tolerant. A friend across the table is speaking kind words, but his eyes are counting the seconds until it’s his turn to talk about himself. Are your own eyes kind? Your skin is prickly, sensing that you are too often the one counting down until it’s your turn to talk about you.
You’ve seen better days. You’re a sight for sore eyes.
You’re a paradox. Now that you have less time remaining, you’re more generous with it. Now that you've accumulated more knowledge, you see the wisdom of keeping it to yourself. Now that you have more to say, you crave silence. Now that your opinions are stronger, you believe them less. Now that you’re more confident, you seek humility.
You’re a menagerie. Cougar. War horse. Hen. You eat like a bird.
You’re a crone: a rare old bird. Your connection to the earth has grown spindly. You’re prone to solitary flight.
Drum roll please … !
I finished writing book #3. That sounds so good I have to say it again. I finished writing book #3.
The manuscript is now in the hands of graphic artist Teresa Mandala, of Bella Designs, who's designing the cover.
I finished writing book #3. That sounds so good I have to say it again. I finished writing book #3.
The manuscript is now in the hands of graphic artist Teresa Mandala, of Bella Designs, who's designing the cover.