On December 16, I will turn 47 years old.
This is fairly inconceivable to me. I am in denial. I have forbidden my children from telling anyone I am older than 45, the age I have chosen to remain for the foreseeable future. Yes, I am aware that in the past I have sworn to fight ageism by always, always telling my true age. But I think I might bail on that plan for a few years, because I'm a little freaked out by how quickly time is passing.
The other day, the Captain asked me when I started writing the blog.
"Huh," he said.
"Yes," I answered testily, "I'm aware that I've been writing the blog for almost a year, and the book still isn't fucking done."
This triggered my internal year-in-review, which happens before every one of my birthdays. This one dovetails nicely with my recent penchant for brooding and introspection. Although I am already beyond middle-age because it is unlikely, though not impossible, that I will live to be 94, I suspect I may be experiencing a version of The Mid-Life Crisis.
I've been thinking a lot about what I want. Not merely in an acquisitive way, but across the board. What do I want physically, spiritually, and emotionally, for me, and my family? If I can answer any of those questions quickly, than how do I get what I want? Or, if the answer is more elusive, how do I define those goals? Am I even goal-oriented? Or am I just getting through each day, deferring what needs to be done to move forward, until I'm failing as a mother, a writer, and a wife? Because that's how I've been feeling. Like I'm treading water, and my arms and legs are growing heavy.
I'm going to try and take what I know about myself, and what I think I want, and really examine what I'm doing. Or not doing, for that matter. Because I've got to get out of this spot before I drown.
Do you know what you want?