On Being 35 (A long time ago in a mindset far, far away)
- It was a dark and stormy night
- Once upon a time
- Second childhood
Did you ever wake up with the sinking feeling in your stomach that life was just one lousy cliche after another? That’s what it was like to be 35.
I suppose I should be happy. At least I woke up
…and I’m still here to write about it.
There’s a coon cat on my lap. I have no delusions about why he’s there as he nudges my hand when I try to type. He wants canned cat food and he’s going to exude with cuteness until he gets it. If that doesn’t work, his uncute little claws will begin piercing my thigh.
All right. I won’t be able to finish this blog entry until the cat is fed. That’s not as easy as it sounds. The dogs know what’s coming:
Cat is being carried to the food bowl.
Time to become a trip hazard!
There is no greater obstacle course than a dog who thinks s/he’s about to get a spoon full of canned cat food.
And no greater joy than having a house full of animals.
My BAID (My, but alas I digress).
What is it about the age of 35 that’s like the black hole of life? That’s when a guy starts to think he’s got to live his 2nd childhood, an event that lasts for the rest of his life. In contrast, a woman thinks her life is over.
Looking back on it, most of my problems could have been solved by skipping husbands 3 and 4, just getting a dog for companionship and purchasing a specialized device for…uh, those intimate moments in life depicted in Viagra ads. It would have cut down considerably on the urinary tract infections–and breaking up with it would have required a trash bag and a garbage truck, not several hundred dollars and a lawyer.
Why is it that life is better now than it was almost 3 decades ago? Here’s my theory: You reach a point where the high heels and insanely uncomfortable dresses are replaced by deerskin moccasins, a loose top and a pair of stretch pants. You stop focusing on the next party, stop trying to please everyone else but yourself, and find what you love to do in life. For me, that was my 4 footed trip hazards–and writing.
Yes, if I wanted to, I could buy a sturdy padded bra, and a pair of underwear that would actually make me look like I have a butt. Yes, I could learn to walk in high heels again (accessorized by decorative crutches) and get more plastic surgery than Michael Jackson–but why? Life is too much fun when you live it in comfortable shoes instead of trying to be what you’re not.