Gap Year

I was spending time thinking of what I had done in the past decade. I was trying to account for all the years and the days and even the minutes of how I had been occupying my time. Why was I doing this? I think because time flew by in some ways and much like my current life, it also dragged as if lugging a dead body uphill. So there I was, sitting with my coffee in hand trying to account for my time, trying to figure out how I got here, the place where I am trying to figure out what work would best suit me at 50. Someone recently told me it was not a good idea to mention my age so much. Befuddled, I asked why. Her answer included all the stereotypes about what it means to be 50. Fifty, she determined meant old, unemployable, over the hill, and falling apart. As I adjusted my very smudged reading glasses, and wiggled in my seat, so my legs didn't cramp up and my back didn't hurt, I felt indignant at first, but then I knew she had a point about the age thing. She had referred to me as middle aged, but I know even with a longer life expectancy, I am now on the back thirty. Even at forty, I had a work expectancy of at least twenty more years, but now when I tell people I am fifty, I get the idea from the expression on their faces that I have a better chance of convincing people that I escaped from a home than I do of getting a decent job. It's too bad, since I have all this experience with people. I have gotten really good at being patient, and listening to people. In my work prime of my thirties, I was always in a hurry, trying to pull information out of them as if I were extracting an abscessed tooth. I just wanted to get on with it, so I could bustle on over to the next task. I retired from nursing because I was becoming burned out on medicine, or actually the process of medicine. Diagnosis, prognosis, therapy plans were still fascinating to me, but I worked in geriatrics where getting an order for a routine blood culture had turned into an act of God. My patients needed to be on their death beds for me to get anything done. Either that or have a really good lawyer who was chomping at the bit to go to court. I had been a nurse for nearly twenty five years and the constant banging of my head left me feeling exhausted and weary, which in turn left me being less than a good nurse. So far every time someone finds out I retired from nursing I get sort of shamed about it. I mean, if I had kept my license up, surely I would have a job. I suppose that is true, but I never wanted to be that person who stayed too long. My analogy is the girl in the corner at a party with a little vomit in her hair. I didn’t want to be that girl. I knew if I didn’t let it go, I would have ended up in the corner. O.K., so back to accounting for the last decade, so there I was racking my brain for how I have spent my time in the last ten years, and the results astounded me. This isn’t a revelation of how I wasted my youth. That can come another day, but what I realized as I tallied up days, and years is I spent eight, count them eight years in high school. Now before anyone thinks I was a slow learner, those eight years were with my children. I had four children in four years, and yes, I was aware of what caused it. My kids have always been my first priority. I made it clear to Michael long before I got remarried, that they came first. The good news is he got four kids in the deal; the bad news is he ended up with four teenagers for eight long years. I hadn’t realized how many years were taken up with Homecomings, proms, dances, driving lessons, detentions, band concerts, cross country meets, youth groups, college visits, broken relationships, friend drama, drug and alcohol lectures and general high school mayhem. Eight years of not sleeping, dropping off, picking up, shopping for, cleaning up after and letting go. Actually, with four years apiece it equals twelve years, but there was some overlap so I have whittled it down to eight. Mike and I had agreed a long time ago I would be doing the heavy lifting when it came to the kids. At first it was out of respect for my experience as their mom, but in the end, it had more to do with my ability to multi task twelve items at a time. So when making my account of all my high school years, I was thinking about all the self shaming I do about not making a living right now. Maybe I can think of this as my gap year, the year after high school before college starts. Truthfully, I haven’t had a kid in high school since 2010, but I haven’t taken a break since then either, so this might be the exact time and the right place to do just that. Since the kids graduated from high school, I haven’t really taken a breath. Until last year they were all home. Now, with only one working adult left in the house, maybe I can sit back and take a breath and let some things sink in. Once I realized how many years I have given for the cause, I count high school as a triple score since aneurysms are a side effect, I could not help but think of this time as my graduation gift. Tomorrow is Mike’s Friday, even though the calendar says it is Monday. I was supposed to send out more resumes to anyone with an address, internet or otherwise. But I think what I might do instead is put myself down to be a volunteer somewhere. Maybe, instead of spending my mornings wincing at the latest list of rejection letters, I will send out my information for an organization that would be glad to have me. I mean, it’s my gap year, and in a gap year philanthropy is usually what comes to mind before one goes off and starts their “real” life. Now that I have graduated and the world is my fifty year old oyster, I can prepare for the road ahead, like any good student of the world.

No Time To Stand Still

Since moving to Chicago I have learned many new things, which I find amusing and somewhat disconcerting. I learned which neighborhoods I will never visit, due to the amount of violence in the city. I learned what "Wildings" are, an activity where groups of people accost an individual, and I learned that having the lake on the east is perplexing to me. Being from Cleveland, Ohio, it so ingrained in me that the lake is north, it has cost me a great deal of time getting lost in Houston and now Chicago. Houston had the coast on the south side, and Chicago has Lake Michigan to the east. It seems Lake Erie will always take the north position on my personal compass. I remain unemployed, but not without activity. I have sculpted an original piece of artwork, and one that I love. I have written a play, being judged, and I sold a painting. I am starting a small, very small, tiny, little business to be announced later, and I am still looking for a "day job". While I am technically unemployed, I am not idle, except on the days I am overwhelmed by the move, which happens. The Midwest seems for the most part the same, but there are nuances to any city and I am having to learn what living in Chicagoland is for myself. I love the convenience of things, the mass transportation, the people. I really like the people. Michael said it and I think it is true, they just seem to get me. Folks in Houston are nice, but getting me is not something that happened often. Maybe it was because they were southern and I was northern. Maybe it was because I laughed too loud, and they were more demure. Or maybe I translate better in the Midwest. I tend to think that is the case, that the Midwesterner just get my humor, and understands my references. Texas had a Cleveland, so any time I said I was from Cleveland they assumed it was the small town 30 minutes north of Houston. When I say Cleveland here, everybody instantly knows where that is, and they don't make Cleveland jokes, which I remain grateful. I am having to navigate new digs once again. We do not own a home yet, but are waiting for one we are interested in. In the mean time, some days are meaner than others, we are renting a small townhouse. Most of our belongings remain in the "Big House" stored away, which is difficult because whenever I look for something I can guarantee it is in there, imprisoned until we move again. Once we do purchase a property, we will have moved 5 times in 3 years. let that little nugget of information sink in for a moment. I actively wince when I think about it, so naturally, I try not to. I miss my old house, my friends, but I really don't miss Houston that much. It isn't that Houston isn't lovely, but I am better off here, in the north where seasons change and winds blow. I have gone and participated in the plethora of festivals all over this area. I have picked apples, seen art shows, gotten to know folks at several medical facilities due an abnormal mammogram, which I am happy to say is benign, but still a surgical thing. I know my neighbors, at least by face if not by name, and I am now figuring out which channels are the local ones on the cable box. Like most things I have experienced, in six months, I will be living here without even thinking about having moved 1100 miles to do it. For now we are still the family who moved all the way from Texas. It's cute how some neighbors still call us Texans because they can't remember our names. I have moments of severe discomfort from the move when I look at my beloved as if I am asking, "Was it worth it?" and he smiles back at me with the, "It's too soon to tell" smile across his lips. We like it here, we do, but moving whether it is across town, or across country is never easy. I do know where to shop for groceries, and how to get around to find things and I now have a handy dandy iphone that helps me navigate when my directions are bad. I could have really used that when we moved down south and I couldn't find anything. The weather is becoming cooler, the wind now has a slight nip to it, which causes me to wrap up in snuggly clothes. I had given most of my winter wear away after living in the south for so long, so I imagine I will have to at some point, go shopping for more weather appropriate clothes. As a writer, I like to take steps back and look at this from the outside when I can. As a human, I almost have to do that every once in a while to gain perspective, for fear of being swallowed up by the negatives. My default is to want to believe that all things happen for a reason, even during the times when I am getting my ass kicked. Or should I say, especially when I am getting my ass kicked. I am happy we moved, even though it is hard at times, even though the rough parts have been a little rougher than I had hoped. As much as I liked Texas, and love my southern friends, I am a Midwesterner at heart and I feel very much like I am home after a very long absence. The folks from here say all the time that I will change my tune once winter hits. I suppose there is something to that. No one has a better spring than Texas. If you decide to see Texas, go in the spring, it is magnificent. I will miss my mild winters, and tropical sweet smelling blossoms, but for now I have the smell of fall, where I lean in and inhale as deeply as I can taking it all in. The leaves are about to change and the evenings are chilly. The other day I was referred to as an activist, a much better title than an unemployable. My summer had been filled to the brim with letters to Congressional members, watching live stream political events and adding my voice whenever I thought I could help. I had all that time, so I figured why not? Or better yet, I have no excuse to not get involved. I wasn't too busy, I wasn't really busy at all, so I came into a fold of people who are trying to accomplish reform. I should have titled this blog Moving Day, because when I look at my posts so many are about moving from one place to another, changing jobs, careers, residences. At 50 I had pictured myself firmly entrenched in a house I had owned for years, doing a job for almost as long and having holiday dinners at my house for the extended family. It's a nice Norman Rockwell kind of picture, isn't it? It isn't even close to my reality, but it's a nice picture. Once I stop dreaming about what kind of life that would have been, I always ask myself the same question. Would I even remotely be the same person if I had taken that path instead? We all know that answer for ourselves. I would have had different problems, different quandaries, different ideals, and maybe even different opinions. What moving has given me is the ability to be afraid and do stuff anyway. It gave me new eyes when meeting people for the first time. Moving forced me to open up, feel exposed, vulnerable, and without ego. Moving allowed me to let go of my past, and reinvent myself according to who I wanted to be rather than people from my past dictating who they thought I was. A couple of days ago, Mike and I went house hunting, a plan B for us. The subject inevitably comes up about how long we are planning to live here. If we buy house 1, will we get our money out of it if we choose to move before 10 years, and what of the housing market and can we remodel and recoup if an opportunity comes up earlier. In our heads we are already moving again. Maybe it is a force of habit, maybe it is the wanderer that seems to rear up every few years, or maybe it is merely an old habit that we may have to leave behind. Since I have so much time on my hands, I am trying to fill my days doing all the things I wanted to do and swore I didn't have the time. I am an artist, musician, writer, dog walker, activist, gourmet cook, hiker, biker, and perpetual dork. It is a luxury to have the time, even without the money to bolster my options. I told Mike the other day, my biggest fear is finding a job and getting settled and not having any time. Tonight is date night. It was chosen at random just because I have the time to plan it. There will be simple inexpensive pleasures of a home cooked meal, a bottle of wine and a winding walk around nature. There will be hand holding, long kisses and a deep appreciation in having someone to share this experience with, who still makes me laugh. We are, without a doubt, moving on and into our future here.

Not Everybody Looks Good In Hats

Not everybody looks good in hats. I happen to be a person who can pull it off. Every time I have worn a hat, I get complimented on the hat, as if the hat is the one carrying off the stylish statement. But I know for a fact, and have personally witnessed those people who should never try and wear a hat. It's tricky, this hat thing. It happens to be one of my more rare talents, the ability to wear a hat. There is a secret to it, an uncommon phenomena to being able to wear hats and not look like a complete dork. The secret is...I have a tiny head. I almost require the hat to balance off the rest of me. My peanut head has been an issue all of my adult life. In my youth the size of my head held no reference, but as an adult, with my widening hips and strong thighs, my head size became a fashion issue. I have had people tell me that they personally don't care for hats. I look at their melon heads, sizable domes fixed atop their neck and think to myself, "Yeah, I see where that comes from." Since I have had to shop in the children's section at different times for my glasses, ski goggles and headbands, I have the unique ability to put a hat on my head and see how it begins to balance off the rest of my body. My hats, many fedoras, which I find fascinating how many people detest this particular hat, are my great equalizer for my peanut head. I never considered before how many women would notice my hats. It seems to either delight or confound them. They either show appreciation or condemnation with very little in between. Mostly I get that little compliment and wistful sigh, which we both acknowledge is their way saying they cannot pull off a look in hats. It's sad, really, that so many large heads just can't fit inside a hat comfortably. Hats are my thing, like my boho clothes, or my paint splattered t-shirts, or my poker straight hair with wisps of silver that tend to stick straight up. I won't lie, admittedly, my hats cover a multitude of sins, like the gray hair that looks as if it is trying to escape my skull. I recently read an article degrading the use of hats in fashion. I noted nothing had been written about the giant sunglasses, which I cannot wear because they cover over half my face and make look as though I were trying to store my face in Tupperware. Hats seemed to be, from the authors perspective over used, cliche, and quite unbecoming. For a moment I pondered her exasperation over the use of hats. I did until I noticed her picture at the end of the article. She had a rather large head compared to her dainty neck and tiny form. I suppose for her, hats had become her fashion enemy, pointing out the striking difference between head and body. Nope, not everybody can wear hats. The poor dear would never know the joy of sporting a deliciously comfortable, incredibly warm, yet slightly fashionable head wear. I felt so lucky today, with fall coming, and winter right behind, my first in a decade, I will pull out all of my lovely hats and wear one nearly every day. My petite, peanut head will feel warm, and balanced. Heads up, little noggins, hat season is almost here.