The thought started tickling the back of my head and just like when a nasty cold is approaching, it moved to my throat, which started to hurt when I swallowed.
I really do try to allow my thoughts, emotions and feelings to stick around if they so choose, because I now realize that they are like bubbles on water, always forming and then suddenly popping. As the saying in Cleveland goes, if you get sick of the weather, give it an hour.
My most dreaded month, August, is now upon us. Woo-hoo.
I’ll be 44 years old.
My dad will have been deceased for a whopping 32 years and I cannot remember his voice anymore.
It’ll be as hot as the devil’s armpit (August blows hot goat breath, just saying) and I have no AC, nor any damn money to purchase even a used one.
Well, no damn money for much of anything.
(Sorry, I like to complain sometimes about being poor, it helps me feel better for a spell.)
None of those things are fixable (unless I start stripping), so I do what we all do in life…I deal with it.
I also try to come up with new ways to make money by attempting to sell crappy craft ideas that I come up with (which never materialize because I’m afraid to lose my money on supplies), because after so many rejection emails about my writing, I don’t ever see that panning out for me.
There are billions of writers on the internet, you guys.
Oh yes, that’s right, the thought. Damn it, let me get back on track.
Yes, I think that this is the first year that I have felt, coming closer to my birthday, really old. Even 40 was no skin off my Ashtabula. (Regional saying.)
Now before anyone calls me a “baby” in comparison because they are over 50, let me give you a few middle-aged woman trivia facts:
I remember talking to crushes and friends on rotary phones.
I know how to change a record player over to a 45 setting (with the little circle thingy) and still laugh because regular albums sound just like The Chipmunks on acid.
I played Pac-Man in my fucking living room, while wearing my Strawberry Shortcake pajamas.
My family used a rubber Barbie arm as a volume knob on our old school remote-less TV.
I ate government cheese and I liked it!
I can get away with saying “back in the day.”
School started the first week of September, not the first week of August. What the fucking hell is up with that shit?
I’ve had numerous Ogilvie home perms.
Most of the cars my family owned didn’t have seatbelts.
I’ve always separated my life into sections, like birth until the day that my dad died, my teen years until becoming a mother, leaving her dickhead abusive father, moving in with asshat, marrying asshat and that brings us to the here and now.
What comes next, at almost 44 years old?
I don’t know. I do know, however, that it doesn’t involve any blackhearted turds.
There is change everywhere. I feel sometimes as time itself is at a standstill. It’s almost like I am watching it unfold in front of me like a soap opera, up high from a cliff, exhilarated for the possibilities and frightened by all of the upcoming traumas.
Those suckers never end, do they?
I continue to carry on my person a heavy fatigue that lays upon my bones, etched into them by years of abuse.
Being alive is both a divinely beautiful, yet agonizingly painful experience.
I say bring it on.