You know you’re getting too old when . . .
Oh, I wonder, if this a truly taboo topic for blogging purposes? At least for a woman, who must never reveal her true age.
I’m taking a HTML course at NAIT and I discovered . . . I am getting old. I used to be one of the first ones finished. Now, the instructor comes and stands behind my chair. His breath is almost palpable on my neck. (Oops, wrong story line . . . sorry.)
No seriously. It was devastating to me. Out of a class of 12, It felt like I was the one who was holding the class up. The instructor would wander around the classroom to see how everyone was progressing. And then, inevitably, he would come to hover around my desk. At one point, he even kneeled on the floor and typed in some tags for me. Oh the humility. Oh well, hopefully I can recoup some dignity tomorrow as it is a two-day class.
Typically, at work, I am renowned for problem-solving other people’s computer issues. Sometimes, it seems that my coworkers avoid asking me questions because they want to try and resolve them themselves. But inevitably in many instances, and in some cases reluctantly, they end up having to come to me for help. Which makes it all worse for me not to be the first out of the starting gate or at least mid-pack.
The ignominy of being a lagger. And not the drinking kind.
That’s what I told her the other day.
And she said, “Really? You really think I’m a good person?”
“Of course I do!”I said.
“You don’t know how much that means to me to hear you say that,” she said.
That’s part of the conversation I had with my 14-year-old-daughter yesterday. Makes you want to tear up doesn’t it? At least it makes me want to tear up. Why did she think I didn’t think she was a good person? (I dare you to try and say that fast 10 times!)
Okay, I admit that, sometimes, she drives me crazy. And sometimes I think of renting a room somewhere where I can be all by myself and watch whatever TV show I want, and not have to pick empty yogurt containers out of coffee mugs, and find everything right where I left it, and not have anyone ask me what is there to eat.
I admit it.
I do tell her I love her and give her hugs. But despite all that, I can’t believe that I somehow neglected to convey to her that I think she’s a good person. And she was so pleased to hear me tell her that I thought she was a good person. Something as simple as that.
So, if there is someone dear to your heart that occasionally drives you crazy, but deep down you know they are a good person . . . tell them so. It means a lot. Maybe more than you think.
Oh what a drag, when we have to slig and slag, for a living every day,
then the weekend comes, bring out the drums, and bang them without delay.
In case you are wondering, “”slig and slag” is what I like to call poetic licence. This is really a lament about wanting to fritter my weekends away in reading and writing, and playing the piano and painting or drawing — and feeling guilty if I do because I really should be cooking and cleaning, and doing laundry, and buying groceries, etc. So I do a few dishes, then I think of something I want to write and I come to the computer and write or research something and then look at the time. I haven’t down what I really needed to get done, only what I wanted to do. And Sammy the Yorkie sits by my chair on the off-chance that I might stop what I’m doing and play with him a little.
Ahhh, to be 14 again like my daughter who can decide to make gingerbread cookies on a whim and decorate them like Harry Potter characters with her friend. Ah fortunate 14.
I’m experiencing a middle-aged dilemma. I admit it. After spending my entire working life life up to this point as a secretary/administrative assistant, the big question is, What next? Or rather, what in addition to?
I’ve been looking on-line for courses to take, but it’s hard to know what I should focus on as I have such diverse interests. . . and I’m middle aged. Tick tock, tick tock, can’t look back, can’t look back.
I would love to compose music, write plays and musicals. I paint, draw, play the piano, write, cook, and avoid housework at all costs.
I’ve got a billion ideas floating around in my noggin like dandelion seeds flitting about looking for a place to settle.
Is this what they call a mid-life crisis . . . does that mean I can go out and buy a convertible and a tune up on my body? O right, it’s terrible to have a mid-life crisis with no money to pay for it.