Waiting for the magic to happen

I’ve been rather quiet lately. I’ve got lots to say, but lots more to ruminate on so I suppose I’ve been ruminating more than usual and saying less.

I’ve had a more than usual busy last couple of weeks both professionally and personally. The new business pitch is over but the news on next steps is impending. I worked very little this week. I felt like i needed the break so I took it. Sometimes I feel guilty about that but I’m trying hard to squash those feelings.

It’s also the last few days before I-day (Infusion Day) so I’ve been feeling shittier than usual and for me, that means really bad Franken-legs and the ability to sleep as many hours as my schedule will physically permit.

I’ve given in to it lately and am trying hard to accept the changes in my life with a hearty, “Hell, it could be a lot worse. This just feels like getting old but ALL AT ONCE. It’s not so bad.”

And it isn’t. So bad, I mean. It’s just…different. Now, I’ve gone through times in my life where my world turned suddenly different. Like that time I went from being a suburban housewife to being the town barfly where no bartender within a two foot radius was even remotely safe. I went from being together to being alone. From being sure of being one thing then suddenly becoming another.

I tell myself that because I did this before I can certainly do it again. And I know I can. But I forget…There was a decade in there of blurry, scary, sometimes ugly, oftentimes super fun, other times completely surreal days. A decade that I laughingly refer to as my “lost 30’s” when I had free reign to be as out of control as I felt I needed to be without fear of judgement. Because, it’s a rule of life y’all. NOBODY judges the widow. I mean, they did. But I didn’t give a rat’s ass. Walk in my shoes, I thought. Then you can judge me. And when that decade came to an end, it felt more like I owned my life again.

I felt normal. Ish. My old life became a memory. I stopped being self-destructive (for the most part) and moved on to being a quasi-grown up independent woman. I liked the new life I had. I found a way to be better than I was before in a lot of ways. In other ways, I was exactly the same.

Now I’m going through it again. Another transformation. And, this one? This one feels a lot harder. I know! I can’t even believe I just said that but some days, I’m not even sure who I am anymore. I still look the same. I drive the same car. I go to the same office. I try to do most of the same things…but that’s where it falls apart.

The new me is slow. Quieter. Less happy in the spotlight because the light is bright and I’m so very tired. The new me is a lot less “fabulous.” I don’t get my nails done on the regular anymore, for example, because lately sleeping in as long as I damn well feel like it on Saturday mornings (who am I kidding? Afternoons) feels a lot more important. I like being comfortable now. I used to be more than happy to suffer for fashion and now? I’m getting deliveries of sensible shoes instead of 4″ platforms and I’ve taken athlesiure to heart in a big way. I still love makeup and glamour and fashion magazines – I just do the whole “thing” a whole lot less. When I do, I take pictures because I want to feel like my old self. I want to believe I really am her.

I know I’m not old but I feel different. I feel like what it must feel like when you’re actually old and you all of the sudden realize that you can’t do the things you used to do anymore. I calculate constantly how far I can go and how much effort doing basic things will take. I make fewer plans because canceling them is painful and I know in my heart there is a 50/50 chance of me actually showing up. I WILL want to…I just may run out of gas. It’s as simple as that.

I’ve always read a lot…but lately? I live in books. I’ve read 21 books so far this year – and will be on track to hit my annual goal for the year (which is 40, if you were wondering). I’m both proud of that and a little embarrassed because the reality is, I am usually reading when I would have been socializing before. I don’t even watch as much tv. I know! This freaks me out too. The simple reason is I often can’t do both. If I watch TV, I’m too tired to read. If I read, I’m too tired to watch TV. Yes, folks, reading can make me tired. Chew on that.

I’m trying to hold on to the threads of my life. To the fibers of what makes me me. But I have to figure out new ways to actually execute. I have to do my job and be who I need to be at work without allowing it to deplete me. I have to learn balance now, not because it’s in vogue or because everyone is doing it or because it’s corporate buzzspeak but simply because I can’t do it the old way anymore. And yet I have to still do it. Not doing it isn’t even an option.

I guess that’s why I have nothing to say, and so much to say. Mainly because I don’t want to deal with any of it. I keep waiting for the magic to kick in and for me to feel like my old self again. That hasn’t really happened yet but who knows why? It could be that this hideous humidity isn’t helping. Maybe I’ll feel better when the cool weather (that so many of you dread) finally comes back. Maybe I’ll feel better then. Maybe the next infusion will be the magic number (cause it definitely wasn’t 6 and 7 wasn’t all that either).

I have to keep reminding myself of that thing I told myself not that long ago…It was all always going to change anyway. I just wasn’t ready for it to change all at once. Not again. I know it’s pathetic but I thought that kind of thing would be a once-in-a-lifetime happening. Silly of me.

So I’m quiet a lot more than I have been because it’s just a giant whirl of “what if, what now, how can I, what if I can’ts” going on up in here and that doesn’t make for easy, light chatting over drinks. I am digging deep to find the belief that I found once before – the one that tells me that in the end, everything will be ok.

I’m hoping this transformation doesn’t take me another decade to get used to because shit! By then, I’ll be 60 you guys and just… wow. I’ll be 60.

I have to let it run it’s course. Be ok with this new slower, crotchety less glamorous me. I have to get to know her. She’s not so bad. She’s just kind of a smelly bohemian, but there are worse things to be. She’s finding new footing (pun intended) and trying not to miss high heels. She is a little bit wiser. And she has amazing dreams (all of that sleep is good for one thing).

Because that’s the only choice I have. Fighting that, on top of the rest of it, just makes me more tired.

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