Sharing With Others

Some days it seems as though the stuffing is coming out of life. This is especially true just after a visit to the doctor, with the blood tests to be arranged, the new prescriptions to be picked up, maybe the colonoscopy to be prepped for.

But other times too, when that exciting new project you’ve been planning for months launches – and no one responds. And the dinner guests who were going to help celebrate your official post-COVID return to “normalcy,” call to decline – because they have COVID. And the utility bills skyrocket during a torrid summer just as the interest on your CDs hits a dismal plateau. OK, so you’re pretty damned lucky to even have CDs – but still. It’s all enough to knock the wind out of you, for sure, and maybe even knock a little sense into you – though not likely, if history is any guide.

And if, on top of it, you’re no longer young and slim and beautiful, but are, instead, old and fat and invisible? Well, let’s just say that at such times, it’s probably best to stay away from sharp knives, and even scissors, except for those kiddie ones with rounded ends. Maybe, to be safe, even stay away from those.

I probably don’t need to say it (though I will), I’m having one of those days. I look around at all the wonderful stuff that has made my life rich for years (the fabulous Houston paintings, by Emma Richardson Cherry and Gene Charlton and a dozen others; the miniature wooden shoe collection, that started with one as a fluke 50 years ago, and now numbers hundreds; all the many beautiful, fascinating books collected over a lifetime, now filling every surface, including tables and floors), and instead of comfort, all I can think of is, “What the hell am I going to do with it – now that I’m old and fat and invisible – and likely to die any day, certainly someday soon?” (Leave that to the executor, seems the only non-crazy-making hope.)

And even the people, some who have stayed with me for years – husband, friends – no, not even keeping those loyal people front-of-mind is enough on such wretched days – never mind those who haven’t stayed loyal, simpletons they, for missing out on the treat that is ME!

On such days, if I had a dog, I’d probably kick it.

Woe is me. A life has never been more pointless and empty than my life seems to me on such days. And when “they” sagely say (or is it smugly), “Count your many blessings,” I reply without delay, “Eat s*** and die, you smug (or is it sage) bast****!”

I probably don’t need to say again (but I will), Yes, I’m having one of those days. But I’ve never been one to wallow in self-pity and despair, to curse the darkness when I could light a light. (That’s a lie, by the way, and I say it only because that’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to say on such days.) Still, unless in my desperation I’m to take file in hand and start sharpening those rounded scissors, what to do?

I could binge eat. That’s likely what normal people would do. But that seems almost certain to feed into that “old, fat” bugaboo. I could go for a swim to goose those beneficial exercise endorphins. But guess what, after three months of unprecedented drought, it’s just started to pour. I could turn it all over to my higher power, except that he/she/they and I have been a bit on the outs for a while – so they/she/he might not accept my call. And besides, that might look like passing the buck.

It's days like this when I understand what grandchildren were really made for. Innocent little creatures who look something like us (though not the ugly or stupid parts), with lives still full of possibility, not weighed down with actuality like our own, onto whom we can project our thwarted dreams and mounting disappointments, and transform them into the vicarious fulfillment that we’ll never know for ourselves. This will take massive browbeating and pressure, maybe guilt as well, and didn’t actually work with the children – but, thank God, with grandchildren we have a second chance!

But, woe is me, I wasn’t planning ahead, wasting my time messing around with guys all those years ago, so I have no grandchildren (you may remember that I’ve written about this before – it’s now a lamentable, recurring theme). And, at 75, it’s probably too late to start. I’m no Strom Thurmond, after all.

But here’s the thing. I know my EST. Remember back when EST was still a thing? No good comes from fighting “it.” Go with the flow. Ride the horse in the direction he/she/they’s going. Yes, even it that horse is going off a cliff; even if it’s blood flowing after you’ve sharpened those scissors. And keep in mind, even at the bleakest times, that, “After all, tomorrow IS another day.” Unfortunately, it’s 50/50 that it will be just as bleak as today!

But you know what really helps? Sharing with others. That’s where you come in. Because, after all, if I can bring you down – even if just a little bit – I won’t seem quite so low myself. That’s me all over, don’t you agree? Always thinking of others. You’re welcome.