Huh, wait...did that just happen?

A few months ago on my way out of New York, my doctor said offhand, 'oh, you're 35. It's time for your baseline and I'm going to write you a script.' For the less fair sex reading this entry, that's a baseline mammogram. A pancake test. A true test that you've hit the age to start worrying. Just that casual comment threw me for a loop - for years I'd heard that women don't need a baseline until 40, but here I was getting written up that I needed to have one before my next birthday. For a moment it was sort of exciting - I got to go first, I get to tell the other younger women in my life what it's like, what to expect. But after that excitement faded, the subtext of what she'd ordered set in.

The script has been attached to my fridge for months, curling at the edges next to the Eat Me magnet from Crif Dog. My first mammogram. This is the gateway test, the one that starts it all. From here on out, it's colonoscopies, bone densities, and other miserable exams to prove you're not yet dying but you're on the way.

But when are all of the things that usually happen at this age going to start happening? I didn't freak out when I turned 30 - and given the circumstances I had every right to do so. That first (and as of now only) silver hair? I protected it feverishly, proud to finally have earned a stripe. But it fell out soon thereafter and I've not found another since. And what about the clock? The oh-my-god-please-don't-let-me-fall-victim-to-my-body alarm clock? That's my name for it, the phenomenon that takes perfectly rational women and suddenly makes them hormonal and unpredictable. This, to me, would be like Spock getting Bendii Syndrome (look it up in Wikipedia!) - after a lifetime devoted to study and reason, the ultimate curse is losing one's mind. I have never been able to comprehend how a woman could wake up one day and suddenly decide it was time.

And then I realized it's a slow process, losing one's mind. It doesn't happen overnight, it's not so easy to see. Somewhere along the way while you've been struggling against it, you realize the struggle is the change. And that all of the hallmarks are there, that somehow you've subconsciously made changes in your life that you think will make you happy, but they've been stepping stones on a path your body tricked you into taking. But as soon as you wrote that you think, 'but I don't really feel tricked, I am really happy.' And then you realize it's already happening. It may not be the same for everyone; god forbid I wake up thinking ineedababypleasenowihavetogetpregnant. But there's something, I know it's there.

So here I sit in my kitchen looking at the yellowing script. Mortality is a post-it on my fridge and the tone in my alarm that will never let me sleep again.

Tripping Over Myself

Sometimes I don't really realize I can break my own fall. Problem is, I'm responsible for the pace at which I move, the clumsy footwork and the sometimes searing, sometimes blinded focus that gets me into trouble.

I said only last week that I was having trouble writing. My friend Geoff and I talked about this a bit - he's a comedian, and it turns out, has noticed this too. When everything's good, the well dries up. The bitter seems overly bitter, the ascerbic too sharp. He joked that the best comedians were addicts of some sort - alcohol, drugs, pain, whatever - and I'd have to argue the same for good writers. Not that I fall into that category, but I understand how it's difficult to get that clarity when your world is so blindingly happy. It's when life is interrupted that the words flow so effortlessly. When things come into sharp relief it's usually a sign that something's amiss, even if it's just a little off. Or that it's all hormonal and lunar. I'll give you that.

So it's time to brace myself. I can see the ground approaching only because I know I've gotten sloppy in my walk. I don't need to be in a hurry, sometimes I forget that that's not the goal. Yes, there is a goal, but that's not the point. I don't have some Britney-driving-towards-stardom hunger. Sometimes I need to just slow down. I'm sometimes startled by my own intensity, god know what this does to those around me. If it drives you as nuts as it drives me, I'm so thankful that you're still here.

Oregon Sunset

It was beautiful and we had a wonderful time. We didn't want to come home. This was the view from our deck.

Getting Away

For the first time in a long time, I'm taking a day off to play. This week brings the first real break I've had since returning to Seattle from New York, and it's much deserved and much needed. Not that things aren't what I'd hoped they'd be here - they're better than I could have ever imagined - but we all need time away from the everyday, even here. So starting Friday morning I'm getting away from it all. Away from the office and its politics, away from the budget and the relocation plans, away from the phone and the computer. We're packing the (new!) car Friday morning and driving to the Oregon coast for some storm watching, some good dinners with friends, and some quiet.

In some ways I have the tiniest bit of anxiety about this weekend, if only because I may be the lone person who doesn't know (and have a history with) the others. Am I worried about comparisons? No. Compatibility? Nah, not really. Privacy? Eh, perhaps a little, but it's a big empty beach and a big house and it's only 2 nights. So no. But it's there, like a squeak in the attic somewhere - faint but noticeable nonetheless.

So what are we going to do out there? Well, this time of year the coast is supposedly deserted - it's windy, chilly, and stormy - so we'll spend some time watching storms roll in, taking in long sunsets, and perhaps catch a glimpse of the Milky Way if we get a clear night. There's a fireplace and a hot tub and we're about 100 yards from the surf so I expect plenty of clam digging and shell collecting too.

And of course I've already got a cheesy weepy book picked out - Marley and Me, by John Grogan. It's about a guy and his unruly Laborador Retriever. Not like the one who ate the woman's face in France, but one that's as loveable as he is mischevious. And of course it's a memoir and it's about a dog, so of course the dog dies in the end...but not until after he's changed the guy forever. A classic easy read, described by my friends as a Barnes and Noble book: one you read only while lounging in the big armchairs while 'shopping' at B&N because you'd never actually buy a hard back for full price even though you're dying to read the book (and you can't wait for it in paperback).

But I digress. This weekend is about centering, cleaning house and settling down. So in good spirit, I'm off to bed for a good night's sleep before my workday Friday is here. And then I can leave it all behind.

Housecleaning

This week I cleaned house, for real and in my head.

After a lot of activity the last few weeks, I took a little time to clean out the stuff running around in that empty skull of mine. I'd seen some behavior from friends I wasn't too happy about and it made me think about my own manners, language and baggage. Turns out I can be sort of a judgmental shit, always on my high horse because of the path I've tread. All of that crap has been good character building kind of stuff, but everyone's tired of hearing about my horrible ex-husband and his departure and my selfish and thoughtless ex-boyfriend and his crack whores. If I can't ever let go of the things that have shaped the person I am, I will be held hostage by them. Respect for them, okay. But more time spent than that is waste.

So this weekend I gave up about 15lbs of guilt. Actually, it started with a conversation about egg plates and ended with me throwing away about 2000 pictures from about a dozen years of my life.
I'd been hanging onto pictures - perhaps thinking someday someone would want them - long after the stories in them had expired. Even my wedding dress had seen the inside of the dumpster three years ago, but the evidence remained threaded throughout my stuff. Out it went, in some ways as much for Todd as for me - and these last vestiges of the person I was then went too. I came home lighter, the welcome more welcome the kisses more ardent. The last of the boxes pulled from the dank flooded basement gone through and placed anew in a safe, lighted home.

Blocked

Finally, a day has come when my brain is so full, my body so tired, and everything is all jumbled up that I can't write. More soon.