The exercise:
It's been a big year for birthdays. Lots of the big three-oh going around, a 60th celebration around the corner, even a 70th. Thirty is four months to the day away for me, so with all that in mind - today's exercise is to write about aging.
Mine:
I'm not where I expected to be with thirty looming around the corner. If you had asked five year old me he'd have probably predicted a successful career as an artist. Coloring strictly between the lines of course.
Ten year old me would have regaled you with exciting tales of my future life as a librarian. Man was I a book-loving nerd back then. Still love reading, working on managing the nerd thing.
Fifteen year old me would have told you all about playing second base for the Toronto Blue Jays. I wouldn't hit a lot of home runs you see, but I'd steal a whole lot of bases. They'd nickname me Speedy.
Twenty year old me would have believed an exciting career as a marketer awaited me. I was going to be the bane of those bland, intellectually-offensive commercials. To jail with Jared! The capital punishment for the Canadian Tire couple!
Twenty-five year old me would expound the virtues of my life as a photographer for National Geographic. Snapping safari shots, framing France's fields. Summer all year 'round.
And here I am, none of those things. But you know what? I'm okay with that. No, I'm thrilled with that. I'm content with my life: I've found a pursuit in writing that I'm passionate about; I'm living happily with the girl of my dreams; I've got great friends around me; I've traveled abroad and will do so again.
Life is rarely what you expect it to be. But, let's be honest here, if it really was - wouldn't that be the most uninteresting, boring, lifeless life to live?
1 comment:
my taking on aging...write-bite.blogot.com
Old Ted
He's my alter-ego. That's a big word. Jung would be proud, or is it Freud? Yes, perhaps Freud coined that term, now that I think about it. He's pink, albeit faded by now, blue-eyed, bald and has a black nose - actually, it's a half-nose - the stitching's all but gone.
He's my teddy bear.
I still have him. He's 54 years old now and he still feels the same to me when I hug him as I did many thousands of times as a child.
He's getting old, nearly pension-age. I think his spine needs an adjustment because his legs are of uneven length, but I don't know any chiropractor who could work on a spine made of foam stuffing.
The reason I notice it is because his legs sit unevenly in the navy blue track pants I made him when my daughter was a toddler. We got together one day, I remember it clearly ... "Teddy's cold!" she announced, so I crouched down to her level, placed the sewing machine on her table, scrunched up into her chair and sewed a pink top and blue pants from the scraps of polar fleece left over from the suit I'd made her the day before. The pants are slipping down a bit now. He says it's because the elastic is deteriorating; I think it's because of his middle-age spread, but I won't tell him. You know I even decorated his top with a patch - a cute dog's face peaking out from Teddy's chest still stares back at me today, some thirty years later. "Make Teddy a scarf," daughter continued, so I knitted one in white. I hate knitting but I did it and he still wears it although retiring to a warmer clime has made it superfluous but I can't bear to remove it ... the memories linger, you see ...
Teddy had a bad accident when he was young. My young niece stayed with us as her younger sister was being born. It was winter, the morning was cold. Mum had a radiator heater on the floor - such a thing would be illegal now in the Nanny State - little niece
was caught warming Teddy's back on the heater. Mum and I caught him in time before the house went up in flames. I clutched him close, glad my niece was unhurt, but ever mournful about Teddy's scorch marks. A good wash in Mum's ol' copper helped remove some of the staining thus incurred. I couldn't bear to watch my bear go through the wringer, though, his little face getting squashed, and I cried when Mum pegged him up on the Hill's hoist by his ears!
I asked Ted if he wanted any restorative work done - you know - the toy equivalent of a nip and tuck, a bit of Botox around the snout, a manicure for his faded paws - but he said "No, I'm too old for all that fuss!" Yes, he was quite emphatic about it. I concurred.
He doesn't need any renovation. His eyes are scratched and faded just like an old person's eyes get. You know the look - the blue fades to a dusty version, losing some of the spark of youth. My dad's eyes did that. That's ageing, it's the way things are. You can't stop that. Who would want to?
Teddy reminds me to age gracefully, too. My wrinkles will tell the story of my life - the laughs, the love, the anger and the joy. The worries - ha! such time wasted on things that never happened! His wry, black-stitched smile holds the secrets every old person knows - that the answer to life is to laugh, and laugh again; there is nothing else for it, at times.
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