Another Pacific Whey Observation

She's here again, the lonely lady - her hair cut short, her pressed blouse perfectly tucked in. Her wine glass sits at arms' length, perched just above her plate. She methodically wipes down her silverware before placing the napkin across her pencil-skirted, dark navy lap. Everything in its proper place. Everything just so before she takes a small, measured bite. A practice that has, no doubt, been often rehearsed and executed.

This is her routine. This is her comfort.

Age is a number...right?

I wonder if I'd be let into Neverland. No, seriously. What is the requirement? Their age limit, is it chronological or psychological? Though I've passed childhood and adolescence, I'm not old, exactly. Though, I am the oldest that I've ever been. It's just that the term, old, seems to be relative, doesn't it?

I am twice as old as some of my students. It is difficult for them to imagine being as old as me, just as it  is difficult for me to truly imagine a 64 year old Shannon - she seems so old. Yet, I also see my mother, heading into her own 6th decade of life, and she doesn't seem old to me. I know she loathes saying she's in her 60's, but really, if you met her, you'd know, she's not old.

How does one measure old anyway? The rest of the world - those around me - tend to remind me that I do not, in fact, refrain from aging. Sometimes it is in the profound: someone I used to babysit having a baby herself. Sometimes it in the silliness: the new "heartthrob" who is 22 looks like he's 12.

There are times I forget I'm 32. I forget that I have now been out of school (negating college) longer than I was in it. I forget that the 90's were more than a decade ago. I forget that my metabolism has indeed changed - well, I forget as I'm eating the ice cream, not so much when I pull on my jeans.

Out of all the things I unintentionally forget, there's one thing that I need to be more diligent in erasing from my mind: the idea of who I am "suppose" to be by a certain age. There are things I haven't experienced yet that I thought I would. But, you know what? There are so many more things that I have experienced that I didn't even know to dream about when I was younger, and that's pretty dang cool. So bring on "the old," in all it's wisdom, chaos, wrinkles, joy, experience, disillusionment, and adventure.


Still, that Neverland thing would be pretty fun too.

Just because it's been a while...

I have nothing of importance to say, nothing gnawing at my brain to get out, but my writing hand is getting itchy – well, has been for some time now. The problem? I've been fairly dormant, uninspired.

I was hoping France would light a muse-filled fire under my uninspired butt; however, it did not. This is not to say I didn’t love my trip, I did (but that’s for another time). It’s just that it wasn’t a very introspective time; this trip’s personality was just different. Perhaps it was me. Who knows? 

Time, at home, alone hasn’t really helped either. I suppose I am still hoping that all my nonsensical daydreams will somehow formulate themselves into a cohesive and interesting narrative. Sadly, they have not. Lazy Buggers.

So…what’s the answer? Well, when I figure that out, I’ll sing it from the rooftops, or, more realistically, type if from my couch (it is not easy to get to my roof).