“You should be a writer,” they say. And if “they” were a literary agent, a publishing company, or anyone besides my sisters and a few well-meaning friends, I might be. However, no one ever mentions being willing to actually pay to read anything I write. And since I like the finer things in life, like groceries, I have decided to compromise and become a blogger. My definition of this term is “someone who wants badly to write for a living, but likes groceries.”
Today is my 45th birthday. [ Side note: I’m not fishing for “happy birthday” wishes. Frankly, birthday wishes seem an expected gesture now, as if someone doesn’t wish me a happy birthday via social media, the opposite is implied. “Gee, Gina didn’t wish me a happy birthday. She must wish I had died yesterday.” I prefer to assume every single person on earth wishes me a happy birthday unless otherwise specified.] Today, more than at 44, or 40, or 35, seems halfway. 90 seems like a nice round number at which to kick the bucket…old enough to have lived a full life but hopefully not yet fully demented. Yes. I choose 90. Thus, I am at my mid-life point. And lately, I have been doing a lot of mid-life thinking. Which, along with aforementioned encouragement from my fans, has led me to this blog.
You see, I have a lot to say about life at this halfway mark. Things about spirituality. Things about politics. Things about my years as a single mom, things about my kids, things about my husband, things about my job, things about Oxford commas (against them) and things about dogs (for them.) Things about running (lots of things about running.) And I need a new audience. My husband, The Quiet One, is (although he is too quiet to actually say it) looking forward to the day he can cart me away to a nursing home so that I babble on to the staff. My younger son, The Gay One, is looking forward to the day he can leave for college or intercontinental kidnapping. My older son, The Straight One, just responds to me via text to save time. I love them. They love me,, but let’s just say they are in the crowd that wouldn’t buy my book.
So today, I make a birthday resolution. I resolve to write each day, even just a little, to record a full year of my middle life. I hope it fares better than my New Years resolution, which was to not read the comments of news stories, comments I know will only fuel my fear that people are generally idiots when it comes to marriage equality and celebrity arrests. No, I really want and need to do this. Like I want and need to run 4 days a week, but much easier on my hips and feet. Like I want and need to eat healthier, but without the burden of denying myself grilled cheese sandwiches, Irish butter and Girl Scout cookies. I will simply replace the time I spend napping between turns in Words With Friends with writing in depth pieces on world peace and people who don’t flush public toilets. What I hope to accomplish isn’t to gain a following of readers, nor is it to have one more person tell me to be a writer. It is simply to unearth for myself a little insight into where I have been, and where I need to go from here, at the top of my hill.