In the book of my life, each decade has a chapter.
Table of Contents
- The Child
- The Teen
- The Young Adult
- The Mother
- The Self
Ah yes! I loved the chapter about the SELF! That is the chapter when you finally make sense of all the chapters that came before. And after that I had so much insight and confidence and lust for life, I couldn’t help but think . . .
“Oh. My. God. The 40s were so awesome. I cannot wait to see what the 50s bring!”
And I eagerly turned the page without looking back.
. . . Only to find myself transported, via tractor beam, into a space vehicle. My brain was taken out, probed, implanted with alien “stuff,” rewired and pushed back in my head like grade-school homework in a backpack.
That is the only explanation I can come up with for what ensued. I woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and I didn’t recognize myself. There were bags. Under my eyes. On my hips. On my stomach. There were hairs in places hairs had never been before, lacking pigment of any color. My nails grew ridges and shredded in the winter. My ankles swelled. My joints hurt. The sleep sucked. My metabolism slowed to the speed of tar pitch.
That’s when I realized this chapter wasn’t going to be an easy read.
And I have this sense of urgency — the knowledge that time is running out. There are places unvisited. There are classes untaken. My story line hasn’t even been sorted out yet. Anyone who has come this far knows two things.
- The first 50 years passed in the blink of an eye.
- Time flies faster the older you get.
I drove by the local arena the other day. All the schools hold their spring graduations there, and the police were directing traffic. The following conversation took place:
Me: Gee, I sure am glad I’m done going to graduations. The long-winded speeches . . . the crowds . . . finding a place to sit on an uncomfortable bleacher . . . trying to find your kid in a long row of like-dressed kids . . .
Me: Yeah, but you’re probably going to have to go as a grandparent.
Me: I’d forgotten about that. And it will be even more uncomfortable to sit on the bench, and harder to hear the windbag giving the speech.
Me: Will I even be alive?
Me: Well, even if I got a grandchild miraculously today, that would still be 18 years off.
Me: (Doing the math) Ohmygosh. Yes. I will probably be alive in 18 years.
Me: Am I ready for that?
Yes, I was alone at the time. But these conversations occasionally crop up when I’m not, too. Bubba doesn’t care. It gives him a break from speaking. Once again I digress . . .
In 18 years, a child can grow from a helpless infant into a young man or woman. How young am I, then, to have just as much time to write an epic ending for this old book? What a thrilling twist of plot to be abducted by an alien vessel! What transpires?
The objective is to make this story of mine more of a can’t-put-it-down kind of book — the kind you finish and wish you could keep reading, rather than the long drawn out chapters with an ending that doesn’t make sense. But then, we are each the author of our own life, aren’t we?
What will your page to read today?
Peace . . .