There’s this post that makes the rounds about being 50 and finally knowing what and who you are. About the strength and wisdom that comes with age.
I don’t feel it. I’m smack dab in the middle of my 49th year, and there are times I feel as lost as I was at 25.
The apartment is…well, just is. Not special. Not home. An after-effect of change.
That’s a weird place to be, a psychological shift of seismic proportions I never expected.
Time is fleeting yet infinite. There are no practices, games, lessons, meetings with DD. There’s work and there’s the apartment. I should have so much time to find me. I would have killed for this time to go to the gym, write, learn to cook, read a book, whatever in those early days. Now the time is here, and I watch the news, sports and ABC dramas then take a magnesium and go to bed where I sleep or think about should haves, could haves, would haves. Weird.
That’s it. I’m feeling weird these days. A little lost, a little found. A wanderer, I guess, looking for me.
Weird. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s perfectly normal and weird is not looking.
Maybe it’s menopause. Maybe this entire post is one existential menopausal reflection. Or is it the opposite of existential?
It is what it is.
I am what I am.
49 is an odd place to be. At least now, in this moment.