It happened again. I worked on two different blog posts while at work today (on a break OF COURSE) (I always have to say that), and I find I can’t use either one right now. I’m just too tired to finish them properly. So I guess this will be a Middle-aged Musings Monday on why I keep wanting to act like it’s Wrist to Forehead Sunday.
And let us consider Wrist to Forehead Sunday for a moment. It would be nice if we could designate one day of the week to get all melodrama heroine, woe is me. We could swoon onto the sofa, wrist properly to forehead, and wait for somebody to administer the smelling salts. And for the other six days of the week we could have out act together.
And by “we” of course I mean “me.”
Quite frankly, I thought I would have my act together well before I reached middle age. I had it penciled in for my 30s. I was almost 40 by the time I realized it hadn’t happened yet. Then I conceived great hope for 50. Almost four months into my 50s, I’m beginning to wonder.
There are compensations if one takes time to look for them. I am still the same bundle of ridiculousness I was in my teens and twenties — with grey hair and a considerably larger waistline. Oh, there are other differences, I’m sure. I know a few more things, I can do a few more things, I have a husband, I have a dog. However, I thing my overall level of ridiculousness has remained steady.
Only now I think it’s kind of funny. I can sit back, look at my own ridiculousness, and at least get a good laugh out of it. And perhaps a blog post.