I am not exactly sure if ’metamorphing’ is the correct word; maybe ‘morphing’ would suffice. I only know that this year of being 50 has been much different from what I expected. My forties were a decade of furiosity, including but not limited to: furious writing, reading, cooking, baking, yoga-ing (walking, hula-hooping, Wii-dancing and other activities of the exercise type), short day tripping, collecting, shopping, scrapbooking, ‘friend’-ing, gardening, fighting (for FAPE), class-taking, picture-taking, meetings (with friends), working…and of course, wifing and mothering. I expected that my fifties would be more of the same, a sort of continuation of the frenetic activities that defined my forties.
No frikkin’ way.
So far, it’s been very different. In fact, it’s like my life as I knew it screeched to a halt when I turned 50. I feel, well, bewildered by it all. I feel encumbered. I don’t feel like ‘do’-ing much of anything (may I just mention here that I have 184 unopened emails, last count?). Mostly, I just want to, well, ‘be here now’.
You know, sitting on the couch with my husband and watch Survivor or Bigfoot or FoodTV with my daughter, sitting in my car and staring at the ocean, appreciating the view of flowers (planted for me by my husband) from my front door…things like that.
I still don’t feel like doing housework though; isn’t it comforting to know that some things never change?
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