Someone Please Tell Me I’m Not Really That Old

As was previously mentioned on this blog, I had a birthday in August. Okay, I have a birthday every August, let’s not get picky about it. After this momentous occasion, I decided it was time to stop thinking about my age.

Literally, not even to remind myself how old I am. Quite seriously. My husband started to ask how old I am now, and I cut him off. No numbers talk around here!

It’s not just because I don’t like the thought of what happens in the latter years of one’s life — health concerns, cosmetic issues, possible loss of faculties as you realize your teenage son just used a slang phrase you’ve never heard of.

It has to do with the feeling of not having accomplished enough. Not having the time left to do so. Not knowing what to do with this sense of impending doom.

All right, maybe not doom. All things come to an end. I’m not so concerned about that part.

I’m more concerned with how I spent my time while I was here.

Part of me (rather selfishly, I’ll admit) wonders about my writing. What if I die before I finish writing all the books I have planned? A long time ago, I made peace with the fact that I will never read all the publications I potentially could, and honestly this does not bother me. But when it comes to my own work…well, now…

And also, what about my blog? If I one day consciously decide to stop blogging and physically follow that through, then it will be what I deemed a necessary and beneficial choice. But that’s totally different to being forced to stop before I’m ready.

Earlier this week (just in case you were hiding under a rock), a total solar eclipse happened. Most people equated viewing it to a spiritual experience. I, on the other hand, cowered in my house, sweating and praying, until it was over.

(I did go outside to look at it once. Only because my husband made me. And, yes, we did have the special glasses.)

Anyway, for some reason, the whole event gave me a sense of…insignificance, and fear.

There are still so many things I have not done with my life. Certain places I haven’t traveled to, that I really, really want to see. People I want to meet (yes, the autistic moth said that).

I can’t figure out what to do with unfinished/maybe finished/could be more?? writing projects. I have no idea if I want to start a Tumblr or Flickr or Wattpad account. I haven’t even chosen a subscription box yet!!

There are too many flavors of smoothie I want to try. Breeds of cat I want to own. Types of clothing I want to wear. (Hey, when you have sensory issues, this is a big deal.)

You know this “Fear Of Missing Out” that apparently was created by the internet, but that psychologists are telling us is a real thing? I don’t have that, but I used to when I was younger. I scoured the libraries and stores for books/music/movies/TV that “everyone” had experienced, so I wouldn’t be left behind.

Spoiler alert: Mission remains incomplete.

And I’ve figured out that doesn’t make me freakishly wrong.

Trust me, that’s a win.

Getting back on point — Now that I have a pretty good grasp on myself, some things I really want are important.

Some stuff I’d hoped to achieve I have. I earned a college degree. (And, no, I don’t give a damn that it’s “just” an Associates. It’s a degree, I worked my butt off and made Dean’s List and even Phi Theta Kappa. So it’s real.)

I lived in England. I’m a parent. I’m a published author.

Now I just need that private jet and the retreat in New Zealand and the pig from Moana. And a dance studio.

And to choose a subscription box.