Saturday, September 28, 2019
Road Trippin’
 
Thirty-some years ago I took a cross-country road trip from Milwaukee to Phoenix. I expected my life to change. And maybe it did. Or maybe it didn’t.
 
At the time, I was on an antidepressant, Prozac. The drug wasn’t working, so I ditched it, stopped cold turkey, against the advice of my doctor, right before I headed out on a 2,000 mile road trip all by myself. Probably not a good idea but, as it turned out, nothing bad happened. Nothing good happened either, though.
 
There were expectations on my part… The open road, fantasies of meeting someone, a cowboy maybe, a horse, finding a piece of land, a place I could call home.
 
How long have I been looking for home?
 
This coming Friday, I am hitting the road again. This time with my friend, Lisa, who is also seeking definition.
 
Again to Albuquerque. Sweet and bittersweet.
 
And once again, I have begun a regimen of anti-depressants, this time Lexapro. I am two weeks in, and there are (manageable, I am adapting) side effects. It’s an SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor). I kind of know what that means; I have done some cursory research, and serotonin seems like it might be an issue for me, but actually I was thinking I need more, not less.
 
Should I trust my doctor? Just because my weight was up and I cried for a full 45 minutes after one simple question: “How’s it going?” “Here, take this pill.”
 
One day after I return from my trip, I have an appointment with a therapist.
 
What I’m hoping is that I will find myself, somewhere out there on the open road.  And then maybe I can quit the meds and cancel the therapist.
 
Maybe I will come to a place I can call home and maybe I will claim my happiness. Or maybe Albuquerque will finally claim me.
 
Either way, that’s what I hope.
 
Wish me luck.

 aturday 8/31/19
The Labor Day Weekend Begins
 
I don’t know where the idea came from, but something told me I should write.
 
Maybe because I’ve labored all day, fall-cleaning my apartment. Maybe I should finally paint my walls the colors that would make me happy. My landlord says he’s cool with that.
 
Maybe I should go for a really long bike ride (too windy, too cloudy, looks like rain, I don’t trust the forecast), or purge my closets, or run errands, or find an outdoor music scene, or seek out a random guy and ask him to take me out on his boat or his Harley.
 
First, there is not a Harley guy in sight. (There’s a biker(ish) bar one block from my apartment. Maybe that’s not my scene anymore, but how will I know…? Where’s my sense of adventure?)
 
Second, it’s too cold to go swimming and there is no BBQ in sight. Okay, that’s a lie. I actually do have a grill, a gas BBQ grill, given to me by my sister and her boyfriend over two years ago when they bought their house and found themselves with an extra grill, given to me for free to go with my new apartment, which apartment came complete with a deck, owned and frequently used by my landlord and his family. A welcome deck, mind you, but I’ve rarely welcomed myself. And, anyway, I never got around to buying propane, because, well, what…? It just wasn’t convenient to run up and down my stairs to cook out for myself?  (I don’t have a problem with my stairs. I am fit as a fiddle, thank you very much (OMG, did that sound Missourian?). How is this any different from going back and forth from my Missouri kitchen all the way to the back of my Missouri barn? I cooked out for myself every single weekend, every single summer. OMG…please don’t tell me I am waxing nostalgic for Missouri! (I miss my porch!) I still love grilled food; I can cook up a whole batch and freeze it for meals forever.

It’s not the effort that’s holding me back.
 
Or, might I just have to engage in conversation and risk a relationship in the process?  There was a breaking point for me in Missouri. Conversations and relationships and simple conversations could – and did – become taxing, draining, scary, ugly, and sometimes downright dangerous.
 
Truth be told, at first, when I arrived in Wisconsin, I couldn’t justify the cash outlay for a tank of propane. Frugality had become a way of life and $50 for propane seemed excessive. Frugality is still a mindset for me (I still wash my baggies!), but now cooking on a grill, especially in the summer, actually makes frugal sense and anyway the cost of propane is no longer an issue, which means to say, money is no longer the root of my evil, which means to say I can no longer blame my unhappiness on my financial situation.
 
I am running out of excuses for my unhappiness/dissatisfaction/melancholy/inertia.
 
So then I tend to, once in a (frequent) while, wonder what’s changed? Or not changed? What is the problem?
 
I believe I am the problem. I believe I am not worth the effort, the effort to determine the means to my happiness, my satisfaction, my purpose. That’s my best guess, anyway. What else could it be, right? Is it possible for a person to actually be incapable of happiness?
 
I think I got really used to the idea of being alone. I believe I lost the ability – and probably the desire – to socialize. Somewhere along the way, I stopped believing that anyone else could contribute to the quality of my life, nor I to theirs. But anyone else other than whom, I must ask? Anyone other than myself? And how the hell am I defining quality? The quality of my life now, in Wisconsin? – after the really, quite scarring experiences of Missouri?  There is no comparison.
 
I don’t understand what I’m waiting for.
Again.
Still.
And if I could, I’m not sure if I could muster up the courage to go after it.
 
But, wait. I remember now.
I am home.
I belong.
I matter.
I am loved.
I have conquered once and I will conquer again.
I have survived.
 
I have mustered the courage, the strength, the desire
time and time again.
At least for a time.
 
Nothing is forever.
Now.
Now is what matters.
Be now. Stay now.
 
Tomorrow will come.
There is always tomorrow.
 
Always tomorrow.
I think I want to go to tomorrow.
Tomorrow wants me and I will be there.
I want tomorrow.
 
For as long as I shall believe
For as long as I shall hope
Every single day
one single moment at a time.
 
P.S.
Just as I finished my editing, I spotted my landlord on the deck and decided to deliver my rent money. He offered to grill my burgers and I proceeded to grill his mind on the subject of God and life and purpose. Turns out he is agnostic (or atheist, he's not sure) and a discussion (borderline argument) ensued. As it turns out, I do have an opinion. And, perhaps, a purpose after all.

Click here tMonday, April 01, 2019


I’ll Tell You Exactly Why I’m Crying



I’ve gone thorough round 2 of saying goodbye to my Mom.  (Round 3 to come in June.)


I thought I could be present, truly present, for the most recent experience of saying good-bye to her, but here I am, feeling sorry for myself.


What I wasn’t prepared for was the past.
People, including family, I knew once but no more, and feeling guilty for my ignorance and my absence.
The past that haunts me and taunts me.  I was gone for a long time, from them and from my self.


My Mom and I became pen pals for years. I cannot not say (double-negative, you figure it out) she answered all of my questions, my doubt of her pride in me, my fear that I let her down. For my 20 years away, she never let go and we had a mother and daughter conversation by written letter and I came to believe that she believed in me.


And now I’m back and she is gone and I feel like I’m supposed to be the person I believed in when I left: the person that I was trying to be, the one I was looking for. But the person that I was when I left is not the person who returned. Let me say that another way: the person who returned was the not the person who left. So, yet, still, no lack of trying and yearning or stone peeked beneath, I remain unchanged. But that cannot possibly be true.


There was a change maker in there somewhere, somewhere in between.
 I suppose it was God.


Did I ignore Him, or am I (probably still) not listening? Or hearing? Or asking the right questions?


But, being present for anything , lately, for me is a daily challenge, met with equal parts coffee, and a minimal (but  consequential) morning exercise routine, and then a day at work, (my work is my salvation only because it requires me to leave my house and there are so many problems with that statement, which is why I choose to state it here and now), and then the end-of-work day followed  by my at-home-by-myself evening  (the two separated only by a semi-meditative walk home (a mere 11-minutes  of self-care) and ending, always, in self-indulgence or self-inducement of some sorts. This could be wine, it could be pizza, it could be popcorn or, it could be toast or a salad and almost always a TV show, but never music, which is painfully telling. It mostly depends on the days, dictated by practicality and work. If it depended on my mood and my need (and lack of desire) to leave my house, I would wither and die. Honesty. Truth. I am writng my feelings on my arm and my heart.


 I need a compass.


My Mom was not my compass, but without her I feel more lost than ever.


If that’s even possible.


Hi, Mom.
o edit.

MomFriday, March 22, 2019
 
It’s Friday, so I drank some wine and made a semi-homemade pizza. Which made me think about my Mom. I made it the way she liked it, with mushrooms and green peppers.
 
I’ve barely recovered from the stress of going to Albuquerque (her vacation) to say good-bye to her and now I’m stressing about her Memorial Service next weekend here in Wisconsin. I feel like I should be planning a “speech.” But I don’t know what to say. Only what to feel.
 
I’m not even sure, really, why I’m writing... Because I’m alone and the cats don’t get it.
 
It seemed like a good idea ten minutes ago, while I waited for my old, ancient computer to fire up. Why in the world would I want to be on a computer after a week of work - on two monitors, trying to help people I don’t know, attempting to assist them in navigating the world of health insurance? And some of them are not very grateful, by the way. But, some of them are. Quite a few of them are, actually. So , I guess I’ll keep my job.
 
I find myself wondering if my Mom is and/or was ever proud of me? Even just a little. I wish I could have asked her recently, because I still doubt myself.

I did ask her, once, a long time ago, during a card game with her and my Dad.
 
She said, “Yes, Dawn. I am proud of you. You are your own person, and always have been. You made some bad choices, but you came out okay on the other side. You are my daughter and I only want you to be happy. I love you and I always will.”
 
That should have been enough. And it was, for awhile, way back when. I felt a kind of parental permission to go off somewhere to seek my adventure.. And so I moved away to Missouri. She visited me once. She slept in my dining room. She wrote me letters the entire time I was away (17 years)... letters covered with stickers and embellished with colored marker (and often a $20 bill tucked inside.) We were pen pals, my Mom and me.
 
My most recent letter to her (3 months ago or so?) was an interrogation, the basis for a conversation, a deep conversation. I wanted us to know each other again, as mother and daughter. I felt like I had been too far away for far too long. I asked her every question I could think of…her memories, her joys, her regrets (if any), her passions. I longed to know her heart.

Recently (two months ago or so?), I asked her about that letter. She said she wrote back (but I never received it), and she had thrown my letter away.  But, how could she? I've saved every single letter she ever wrote me. Why wouldn’t she do the same?
 
Because there was no need. The truth was in our relationship, the relationship – spoken and unspoken – between a mother and a daughter.
 
True love. Perfect in any and every way. Always and forever.
 
Love, Dawn

Tuesday, March 05, 2019
A Eulogy of Sorts
 
Irony is twisting my brain as I wander in circles around my apartment. There is wine in my hand and pain in my heart.
 
I am packing for Albuquerque. Again. This time, a round trip flight to say goodbye to my Mom.
 
I don’t write much anymore but I am still, at heart, a writer. These are the times that call for me to write. Right?
 
The sadness I feel is indescribable, as it must be for anyone who must say goodbye to a loved one. I’ve considered myself blessed for a long time at not having to experience a major loss. And yet, here I am.
 
The good news is I made it back to Wisconsin, eventually, to spend a good amount of time with my Mom. She hasn’t really been the Mom I wanted to remember, but she is my Mom. I saw her laugh, but not often enough. We played cards and shared stories when she felt like talking. I wrote her sticker-embellished letters, but the most recent ones she either didn’t answer or didn’t remember receiving.
 
We went shopping a few times. She loved to buy me things. I occasionally pretended to share ailments with her, such as sore muscles or bad gas or exhaustion. Ridiculously, when I stopped smoking, we lost a time to share, a thing in common. We took a few trips down memory lane and I sometimes saw a light in her eyes. I hope she saw one in mine. I hope, at some level, she was proud of me and happy for me.
 
I think my Mom was sad for a long time, and I’ve been sad for a long time. We had that in common, among other things. Loneliness, even when surrounded by others. I rarely saw joy in her face, especially since Marshall died, and I very rarely feel joy in my own heart. Not now, not for a long time. Joy is not a requirement of life, but it sure adds to its quality.
 
Where do we find joy? In ourselves, I've been told. In others, in community. In activities, keeping busy. Sharing experiences and memories. My joyful memories are shrouded in gray, clouded by distance and eroded by time, caught in the shadow of twilight, some of them darkened in secrecy. Even the new ones seem to fade almost instantly into a why-does-it-matter place of ozone.
 
My Mom is dying. And I’m not ready.
 
I moved to Wisconsin to be near her. She went to Albuquerque on a vacation. If I had moved to Albuquerque, I’d be with her now. She is in New Mexico and I am in Wisconsin. And now I have to go and say good-bye.
 
I am not ready.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Friday, September 28, 2018
 
My New Normal
 
My alarm (Alexa) goes off at  5:45 a.m. I tell Alexa to snooze (usually twice, although I’ve been awake for I-don’t-know-how-long [because my “real” alarm clock is tucked under a shelf on the bedside table where I can’t see it except in an “emergency”  {I wonder what an alarm-clock-emergency might look like?} and so that the ambient light doesn’t disrupt my as-yet-insufficient and inefficient sleep rhythm).
 
I am out of bed by 6:05. The coffee is brewed (because I’ve finally come full-circle into the 21st century and have a timer program on my coffee pot) (the timer which I used to mess up all the time when I had those crazy variable work start times way-back-when-last-week and for the past 16 months).
 
I then feed the cats so they will leave me alone while I do my morning “business” in the bathroom. Pour my coffee. Close the windows that have been open all night (Lord, I love fall sleeping weather!) and go into the spare bedroom, unroll my yoga mat, and, YES, do yoga. Right now, it’s my own homemade routine, just good, long stretches, deep breathing, and every-other-day isometric muscle routines (crunches, fire-hydrants, downward dog, plank [holding currently at about 45 seconds, working towards anything better than the day before). My routine takes about 30 minutes, and already I cannot imagine any other way to start the day. It even allows for cat-bonding-time: they are on the mat before I am!
 
After my workout, I still have nearly an hour before I need to leave for work. I have time for small projects: cleaning up some dishes, rearranging furniture or reorganizing a cupboard, mopping the floor, cleaning the litter box, taking a Spanish lesson. I do this stuff however the mood strikes. My plan evolves while I am in my quiet place, on the floor with my cats. A to-do list might evolve, or maybe a quick check of my Facebook (always last on the list and only if I have extra time, which this week happened…never).
 
Meanwhile, I am also getting dressed (putting together outfits and wearing clothes that have been collecting dust for years!), putting on makeup (wow, I never used to take the time for that -- my eyes really POP! {behind my fashionable glasses [bought online]} with a bit of mascara and -- with summer being over, a little blush doesn’t hurt! I pack my own lunch and snacks (which I can eat at my DESK! and during my TWO breaks and ACTUAL 30-minute lunch break). I make my bed. I clean the kitchen. I have all kinds of time, and it’s a day-changer!
 
Work starts at 8:00 a.m., so I'm on my way by 7:42, 7:43 at the latest. Down 20 steps from my upper flat and out the door for the .6 mile walk to work (to the front of the building, (10 minutes exactly unless I stop to chat with a neighbor who's walking her dog), then down the entire length of the building (another .1 mile), then up 2.5 flights of stairs to my training room.
 
My work day begins with computer training for 2.5 hours (more on that in another blog, no doubt; can you stand the suspense?!) and then a 15-minute break, which takes me down 3 flights of stairs to the FULL CAFETERIA to see what’s on the breakfast and/or lunch menu, which I have not yet taken advantage of even though it’s all very healthy offerings (I work for a healthcare company now!). Then back up 3 flights of stairs, and back to work till lunch. Back down the stairs to the (very comfy and spacious) cafeteria, eat my homemade lunch, walk the TRACK for 15 minutes (which takes me right by the IN-HOUSE WORKOUT FACILITY), back up 3 flights of stairs and back to work till my afternoon break, down the stairs, around the track, up the stairs, back to work, down the stairs, and then the walk home .7 miles and up my own stairs, home at last.
 
And feeling fantastic! I don’t have to go to the gym because I’ve worked out pretty much all day (sort of) and I actually feel like doing other stuff, like more house cleaning or whatever (so many things on my want-to-do-now-that-I-feel-good list) and then I eat a light dinner and watch TV, no guilt. (I'm still having trouble staying awake after 8:00 p.m. [WTF!] but that's going to change, too, I hope!)
 
It’s a game changer. It’s a life changer. I did the math. In addition to my morning workout, I am walking 1.5 miles a day and doing the equivalent (per Google) of 13 flights of stairs a day. This weekend will include at least one good, long bike ride and maybe even a visit to the YMCA. I won’t have to worry about some stupid nonsense functional injury (like pulling a muscle while bending over to pick something up off the floor), because I am very nearly limber and getting limber-er.
 
In my small group of fellow trainees, I am the only non-smoker, and apparently the only person not currently taking prescription drugs for some sort of ailment. I’m the only one who packs a lunch and the only one who walks to work and the only one who takes the stairs. And I am the oldest person in the group. Go figure. But there are 699 (!) other people working in my building and I’m sure I’ll find a like-minded person in there somewhere. Otherwise, I’m quite content to work my own mission.
 
I will admit, it’s only week one, and I certainly hope to keep up with my new-found take-care-of-me attitude, but it’s the biggest personal change/challenge I’ve experienced/undertaken in a very, very long time, much needed and way, way overdue. Call it my early New Year’s Resolution. Call it the New Me.

Version number: v.infinity.I.plan.to.live.forever/the.bestme.me.
 
Attitude is everything, don’t you think?
 
 
 
 

This past weekend I spent a too-short weekend with my sister, up north, camping, biking, swimming, kayaking, dinnering, card-playing, dog-romping and sister-ing. A perfect bittersweet end to summer.
 
Today I got off work at noon. It’s weird now, how I’m thinking that I will miss having random days and times off when I start my 9-to-5 desk job this coming Monday. It’s been so long since I’ve been a member of a “normal” work force. Office job. Not retail. We’ll see how that goes.
 
Anyway it’s 2:00 p.m. now. I need a project or I will wine. It’s 5:00 somewhere.
 
I have a room full of boxes. Dreaded boxes. Boxes filled with memories, but not the right boxes, because I gave Tommy the wrong box numbers, or they didn’t fit in his car. I find it scary sometimes how a simple detail like a box number (or such things as such) can sometimes derail my entire mental trajectory.
 
I need a project, a diversion.  I persevere. I work my Spanish lessons, I empty the garbage and I have imaginary conversations with the man I want to fall in love with.
 
 I purge yet again. I dig through the crap and purge and toss and donate (ok, maybe I save some stuff for a maybe-tomorrow).
 
 And I make my way to the magic box.
 
Art supplies. Macrame supplies. Hoops, beads, yarn. Brushes, paints, easels and canvas. Pencils and notebooks, many of them so very recently acquired with a wish and a hope and a plan. And my own paintings from my art school days.
 
They all (all of them!) go into a drawer from yesterday to look at tomorrow. Another tomorrow.
 
And then I find a baggie full of refrigerator magnets. And for a moment, I find my happy place.
 
So very long ago, I started collecting these symbols of some fantasy-fantastic-could-I-really-ever-desire in every state I visited. I was somewhat surprised at how many I had actually acquired, but I was more disappointed in how many more are missing. And just for the record (full transparency), there were a few that were gifts from friends (who missed me while traveling in states [and one or two countries] without me).
 
So, now, this evening, I arrange them, very neatly and geographically on my refrigerator.
 
A  virtual and geographical map of my past and my future.
 
With my future in the very front of my mind.
And the past being sipped, savored, and then forgotten, in a glass of wine.
 
 

Today I scratched an itch that has been bugging me for years. It required that I embark on a project of epic proportions which only a rainy day (6th one in a row if I’m counting correctly) could accommodate.
 
I cleaned up my computer’s hard drives. All four of them. Every single hard drive that was saved from fire, flood, crash-and-die and – truth be told – cat pee. Every hard drive that somehow survived long enough to be reinstalled on top of a “new” hard drive in a “new” computer, every one of them used, rebuilt, re-purposed, bought-on-the-cheap in a moment of desperation (so many moments of desperation), and then left to reside side-by-side in a not-quite-integrated neighborhood of semi-cooperation, in one house, one maze, no GPS available.
 
(FYI, I still have my very first hard drive, from my very first computer! How many of you can say the same? [And would you even dare admit?]
 
I’m quite certain there is an easier way to do this, some kind of synchronization. My computer guy back in Missouri offered to do it free of charge the very last time I visited him when my last hard drive took a dive. But I was so afraid he would lose something…something important…so important! So I said, “Thanks, but no thanks. I would love that kind of project. It will be fun!”
 
(Speaking of synchronization, I could also use some mental synchronization, but I’m not sure I trust a shrink to know what to save and what to toss either!)
 
Anyway, at one point, I was convinced it would require a whiteboard, or a wall-sized bulletin board with hand-drawn maps and arrows and computer-family trees. Maybe I could turn it into a weird work of art.
 
Well, it only took me a couple of years, it only required a pen and half of a spiral notebook (so far) and it has been kind of fun and extremely satisfying (so far), like the ultimate spring-cleaning project. But the nitty-gritty still awaits: hoping I didn’t delete anything crucial (like a program or a .exe file, right?!), not to mention re-visiting all of the (as-yet-unopened) files that I deemed worthy of saving: my life in review…
 
…Blogs, photographs, letters, writing projects, freelance projects, art projects, nutrition school research projects. (An awful lot of projects, unfinished...wait...no...in progress!)
 
Also buried in the Netherlands of my old, boxy computer are some Neanderthal, barely-functioning software programs, programs that these days require a monthly subscription ($$$) and, no doubt, a modern operating system. I’m still running Windows XP, if you can believe it. And, gee, there’s the cloud for storage now, right?
 
I’m really expecting (oh, that word!) that this will be one of my last looks back into my past (at least until I get my hands on my journals once again, written from the age of 14 [!!??] and currently residing on a pallet in New Mexico). I am making a supreme effort at re-purposing the useful and tossing out the crap. Replicating rather than duplicating. (I think there might be a fine-line-difference between the two. Or maybe they’re the same.)
 
But I can’t be the same, and I can’t be different.
 
I can’t quite wrap my head around all of it, but one thing I know for sure is that quite soon I will be able to afford (and hopefully actually desire and make use of) some new software (for both my head and my computer!)…
 
…when I start my new job (career?) on September 24.
 
Stay tuned.

An unusual 2-1/2 days off…
Projects include:

• Put together a shelf unit I bought on a FB Yard Sale two weeks ago, still only partially assembled, and plopped down exactly where I dropped it, in the middle of the hallway right in my way, every day. On that day, I also went three hours out of my way to buy a bicycle for $20 which I could not test drive because both tires were flat. (*Long story, kept short, you’re welcome!)
• Post previously-referenced bicycle on FB Yard Sale for $25, after I remove the rack that’s worth $20 all by itself (and after my sister so kindly fixed the flat tire).
  

• Unpack many particular previously-packed-in-Missouri boxes, brought to me from New Mexico by Tommy and Jody on their road trip to Wisconsin this summer. These boxes of mine I previously sent from Missouri to New Mexico  (“THEY MUST GO!”) on a side trip to wait for me until I arrived in New Mexico while I took a side trip to Wisconsin, which turned into apparent-permanence.

When I requested retrieval of some-certain boxes from New Mexico on my brother’s visit home, I selected particular boxes from a half-assed, hastily-scribbled , last-minute packing list made on a moving day over a year ago and, more recently, from a photograph of the pallet of my stuff that eventually ended up in New Mexico. I had every reason to believe, and expect (!) that one day I would be reunited with my stuff. I thought reuniting with my stuff was essential, and deserved, and necessary, and important.
I was expecting…(there’s that word that I dislike so much [and expect so much from… “expect”!)…art supplies, home décor, memorabilia…my Dad’s ashes…, you know, important, meaningful stuff.
Instead, after days (weeks, months) of anticipation, the partial, minute quantity of stuff that made its way back to me from New Mexico to Wisconsin was, I found,…OMG, clothes. Clothes from the Missouri-me, completely irrelevant to my life now, another supposedly brand-new story. I’m not even sure I can bring myself to go through them. I think maybe I should just shut my eyes and throw them away without further investigation.
 
All of the boxes.
Boxes of stuff.
All of it.
 
Why does that feel like a near-tragedy?
Shouldn’t I just maybe toss all of it?
Everything?
 
What am I holding on to? What am I waiting for?
 
Burn the pallet in New Mexico?
Which = my life in Missouri which = my life before now?
Isn’t that the best way to a fresh start?
The only way?
Bonfire.
 
Is that only three things on my list, really?
 
Two and a half days. No problem.

Sunday, August 19, 2018
 
EXERCISING MY MUSCLES
 
I can’t deal with an intro, so we’ll just launch right into it…
 
BRAIN MUSCLE
I am currently taking at least 6 courses online. Unofficial, un-degreed learning “opportunities.” New things, new skills, new neuron-firings. Because I want to, because sometimes I think my brain is dying faster than my body.
Or because I need to appear fresh and new and exciting to a prospective new employer.
Or both.
 
CAREER MUSCLE
On my next interview (on Wednesday 8/22) (10th-ish over the past few months), I will need to convince my prospective employer that I am not retiring anytime soon (ageism?).  I know this to be a theory, because contrary to a popular previous generation-defined definition, I am NOT desirous of retirement. I don’t have kids, my empty nest is as empty as it always was, and I’m ready to do what I’ve always been ready to do, which is to satisfy my muscles, see below.) P.S. I love my job, but the pay sucks, and there is no room to advance. I need to advance…I need to march forward. And my feet freaking hurt, so I cannot march.
 
MIND MUSCLE
I do not, do not, need a shrink. Or do I? Over-thoughtfulness is not a weakness, right? I just need a sounding board. For a minute. Just for a minute, or a session, or two. No more than that, because I’m older and wiser and SHOULD have it all figured out by now.  (See also “Body Muscle,” below, because that works every time. Exercise my body, and my mind will respond in kind. I know this. I have verifiable, scientific proof with my own body. That should be all I need…)
 
BODY MUSCLE
Self-explanatory (see previous statement, above). If you’re my age, you get it. If you’re younger, then you need to invite me into your camp, and remind me (frequently, because you’re  young and vibrant and you still believe) how good it feels to be active and vibrant. Because I remember, and so do my muscles, every time I use them. And I do, regularly. I will not die because of physical decline. But I could do better.  (See above, and repeat.)
LOVE MUSCLE
(a/k/a) the Heart. Wow. That’s a big one. Not sure where to go with that.
I am back with my family now, right where I need to be and right where I have been welcomed with open arms: broken, wounded, and in need of a REALLY BIG HUG. I have been accepted, and I am home..,
But, there’s this space…a void...sometimes a big, black hole…a scary place, I have trust issues (go figure)…
 I want (need; [I hate the word “need”] /could use) a companion. I have a companion in mind, but I am legally bound not to act. No, it’s not my cousin.  J
That being said, I’m pretty sure you don’t want to know, or maybe you already do, depending on your status in my life. You know who you are.
 I’ve already said too much, and now I have to kill you. Watch your back.
Just invite me to a concert, buy me some wine, take me out on a date, and see if you can make me talk.
 
Speaking of concerts, this is…
…THE BIG ONE…
 
 THE CREATIVE MUSCLE
Art, photography, writing, music.
I have a freaking degree and I’m a cashier at Pick and Save.
Did you know I played the guitar? I used to sing? I won a medal. I played drums and tambourine. I danced, nearly professionally. I’m considering joining the local theater group, encouraged (!) by a young cashier-actor-wanna-be who makes it all seem brand-new-possible. He says I should join. They need nuns for “Sister Act.” Is it necessary for me to identify with my role? I should probably watch the move and then decide. Or not. Really, I should just jump in. Seriously. Nothing to lose. Right? Of course you’re going to say, “right.”
Why can’t I?
 
ANIMAL MUSCLE
This is at the end of my list, but I think it should be closer to the top. I really think this is a place I should explore, because it’s sort of a comfortable place, a relatively safe place that I know. But, more times than not, it involves heart break, and I think my heart is not strong enough.
 
But, maybe this could be a place
some place
 where all of my muscles to come together into one.
Crap (f-word preferred)
 I don’t know
and
I’m afraid to look.
 
BODY, HEART, SOUL & MIND
All the same.
All one.
The place.
A hard place for me to consider, everything considered.
There is a lot to consider.