I woke up with a creak this morning. Almost a groan.
I’d slept enough—actually, I’d slept for a very long time—but I could feel my age. For the first time, I felt old.
I apologized to the dogs I’m sitting while making their breakfast, told them we wouldn’t be walking until after dinner, made coffee, and sat at the table. I thought about my dreams. I thought about people I’ve known. I thought about what the hell I’m going to do with the rest of my life.
I thought that maybe I’d been a little too intense with the yoga yesterday—it was the first time I’d actually put my intention on my breath. And I thought about how I’ve expected everyone else to take care of me in ways they never could have known I needed.
And I put that shit to bed.
Age Comes Anyway
I realized this morning that I’m old enough to be a grandmother.
If I’d had a child at 24, they’d be 24 now. They could easily have a child of their own. Forty-eight is not shockingly young for a grandmother. Ideally, your kid’s a little older—because the older you get, the more you realize that 24 is basically a brilliant disaster—but it’s possible, and in many communities, expected.
My reproductive years ended abruptly at 42 with a full hysterectomy, and the HRT gave me pulmonary embolisms. So I’ve been without estrogen for at least five years. Things are mostly going well—but I still thought I was young. I thought if I lost enough weight, drank enough water, and used enough retinol, I’d stay 25 forever.
And to be fair, thanks to sunscreen, vitamin C serum, and copious hydration both inside and out, my face doesn’t look my age.
But this morning, I felt it.
Yes, the yoga helps. I can still get on the floor with kids and get out of chairs without grunting, but this body is not a machine that generates infinite energy. (What is the name for that lie, by the way? The one that tells us we’re not allowed to run out?)
Sober, But Still Running
I’ve been sober since 2012, which is amazing. But I’ve still been chasing things like I’m drunk. Hustling. Proving. Craving the rush of getting it right.
I love playing the angles. I love walking into the cave full of dragons and emerging without a scratch. I love living for the story. I love having a life that makes a great memoir.
But I’m tired.
I think I’m done with that.
I think I want to teach little kids English. Help them exist in their weird little brains. I think I want to live somewhere quiet, where nobody knows what I’ve been through. I want to drink good coffee. I want to stop working 60 hours a week on paperwork no one will read, written to satisfy laws that won’t matter by fall.
I want to stop thinking that carrying other people’s burdens is holy. I want to put them all down and creak along, following my heart—and taking the time to figure out what it even wants.
I’ve Earned My Age
I hate saying this. But I’ve done so much. I’ve had to push through and power on, and… I’m tired.
I’ve earned some peace.
I’ve earned my age. I’ve earned respect, and I’ve earned a little wisdom. I’ve earned the right to let other people be. I’ve earned the right to be choosy about who I spend time with. I’ve earned the right to live and let live.
My entire life, I thought if I just followed the rules, everything would turn out fine. That I’d have a good life. But the rules? They don’t mean shit.
I just want to be left alone. Probably with one—or preferably both—of my sons. I want to do what I need to do. I don’t want to live up to anyone’s expectations anymore.
I’m tired.
From Here On Out
So this is what I’m going to do:
I’m going to ride out this in-between place I’m in.
I’m going to build a plan for wherever I end up next. I’m going to leave other people to their games. I’m going to let myself feel old—but solid. So, so solid.
I’m going to let myself be slow.
I’m going to put down the to-do list. I’m going to trash the bucket list. I’m going to move forward in the knowledge that we only get so much time on this earth—no matter how chipper or magical or manifest-y we think we are.
I’m going to rest in the knowledge that the hurry leads to mental illness. It leads to poor decisions—or worse, decisions you never wanted to make.
I’m going to release everyone from whatever role I thought they should play. I’m going to let them be who they are. I’m not going to resent them for not being what I needed them to be.
I’m going to sit here and release, and see what stays.
Schedules are artificial. Social obligations, even more so.
Come Sit With Me
I’m tired.
If you’re tired too, come sit with me.
I’ll put on some ancient flute music. We can color in my bird coloring book. We can read. I can make tea. The coffee’s kind of cold, but I’ll brew a fresh pot. Later, I need to go to the store for dinner stuff, but you don’t have to come if you don’t want to.
Just, please—don’t tell me who I am. Don’t tell me what to do. I don’t fucking care.
I’m going to be slow now.
I’m going to let my insides move like molasses while I sit on a sun-warm rock.
I’ve been through the wars.
Let me be.