Looking Toward Sixty

Nothing to see here, move along

I don’t know if I have anything new to say. I’m teaching classes and they’re going pretty well. I’m avoiding my next novel in favor of some advertising stuff I need to do. I’m hopefully losing weight (SLOWLY). I turn 58 in two weeks —

That’s it, isn’t it? A year closer to sixty.

Close to Sixty

Do I feel close to 60?

My body — well, that feels old. I’m out of shape and my right knee is oh, so messed up.

My mind? I feel 40, only with a lot more memories than I should have. In fact, it’s only when I think of my memories that I feel old in my mind. Like when I think of old technologies — dial phones, vinyl records, 8-track tapes. Or when I think of pasting Plaid Stamps from the A&P into a booklet to redeem, or going to a real ice cream parlor at the little pharmacy right in town. Was it a better time? No, it definitely wasn’t. It was a time of enforced conformity, one I didn’t fit into. I guess I’m not so old that I see my childhood in sweet sepia tones.

What about myself as a sexual being? That’s not a problem, except that I still find myself attracted to younger men (about 30 years old at this point) and any fantasies in that direction seem ludicrous.

From the outside

I get mixed information from the outside, somewhere between “You’re not almost sixty!” and “When are you going to retire?” The latter comes from my colleagues, because the MOSERS retirement plan I’m in would pay for retirement already. (The reason I don’t is because the University no longer funds health insurance for retirees during the medicare gap.)

Retirement dreams

I know what I’d do if I retired now — I’d go full-steam into my retirement career. And nap a lot. I’d sit in the coffeehouse and write. I’d relax. I wouldn’t miss work at all. If I could retire now, I would, and it wouldn’t make me feel any older.

But for now, I’ll work, and remember what it was like to be younger, and make little fuss about the passage of time.

About External Validation

“Where’s my cookies?”

For most of my life, I have self-medicated by external validation. When I’ve been in bad moods (and for someone with bipolar, those bad moods were long and intense), I would say, “I’ve been good, God. Where’s my cookies?” Just as when I was a child, a cookie would shut me up, but I exchanged chocolate ship to external validation.

Why external validation? I grew up in a household where I wasn’t recognized much, probably because I was so accomplished for a child and they didn’t want my sister to feel bad. This perhaps went too far, to the point where if I accomplished something, my mother would tell me that my sister was better at it. On the other hand, at school, I got a lot of recognition and validation, from my poem the third-grade teacher posted on the classroom door to becoming a National Merit Scholar my senior year.

But it seemed like I hit a peak my senior year of high school. Certainly, I went to a Big 10 university and stayed in until I got a Ph.D., but I seldom got external validation from high school on. Unfortunately I was addicted it, as if it were the sugar bomb cookie I wanted when I was younger.

Older and mostly wiser

Fast forward to a happily medicated 57 years old. I’ve gotten into the mindset that God does not award external validation, nor does She present anti-depressant happy events to me. Furthermore, I have developed the (possibly cynical) viewpoint that If one has the power to grant external validation, they grant it to someone who exemplifies their values; in other words, someone like themselves. For organizations, this is doubly so.

I no longer shine; I manage like everyone else. My passions, including writing, do not give me any great external rewards. And, although I know rationally that I don’t need external validation, I still do. I need it as motivation, as the guiding light that keeps me going on a venture.

Writing without cookies

I have not been getting cookies when it comes to writing. I haven’t gotten many sales, or much recognition, or other external measures to validate my choice to write. In other words, I don’t shine; I manage.

I need to find a way to motivate myself to write without cookies. Internal validation would be ideal; yet I struggle. Perhaps because I’ve already met my Big Audacious Goal of getting a book, in writing, in paperback form. I don’t have a Bigger Audacious Goal except for traditional publication, which — get this — requires external validation.

So I need some internal validation. I need to have a specific goal and meet it. And for me, that needs to be a Big Audacious Goal.

Any ideas?

Stuck in My Head

Songs that get stuck in my head

I hate it when I get songs stuck in my head. Today it was “She’ll be Coming ‘Round the Mountain ” — the burlesque version that Daniel Radcliffe tweaks his way through in the show “Miracle Workers”, complete with honky-tonk piano. I loved the scene, but I don’t know that I want the song in my head ad nauseum.

Usually the songs that get stuck in my head are catchy, popular songs. Pop music. For example, “Baby Shark”. That was in my head for weeks like a parasite, and I was contemplating Ivermectin to get that earworm out. (It is not recommended to use Ivermectin for earworms or COVID-19, as its only use in humans is for tropical roundworms). I guess this is why they’re called earworms.

Getting the song out of my head

I have a system for getting earworms out of my brain, and it’s pretty foolproof, at least temporarily. I blast a song which isn’t inane, which isn’t pop, which isn’t going to stick in my head for very long because it’s not easy to the ears. My favorites:

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Nine Inch Nails, “Head Like a Hole”
Mike Oldfield, “Tubular Bells” (Exorcist edition)
The Hu, pretty much anything
Yes, “Starship Trooper”
Anything classical

The purpose of these songs is to first, get me grooving. Second, drive out the earworm. Third, dissipate instead of getting stuck in my head like an alternative earworm. Because they’re so complex, they don’t get stuck like pop songs do. And then I have my brain back.

Until the next earworm…

Profound isn’t happening

I’m trying for profound this morning, but it isn’t happening. What is happening is that I am falling asleep at my keyboard. While typing. And I’m still hitting the right keys. But that only lasts for so long before my words go into gibberish. It is not possible to sleep and type at the same time, at least not for long.

It makes me wonder if I could sleep and go to work at the same time. I doubt it, because the paying attention to students part will be difficult with my eyes closed. And then what happens when I start dreaming?

The coffee isn’t working

I’m drinking my daily cup of coffee, and it’s not waking me up. No jolt, no feeling of invigoration, nothing of the sort. I want my money back.

I don’t know why

I don’t know why I’m so tired today. I got a good night’s sleep and an afternoon nap. I’m not been doing anything too strenuous except teaching, but yes, that’s strenuous. So is existing with 107-degree heat indexes. So, okay, maybe I do know why.

Pushing myself

Not much I can do but push myself. Get ready for work, drive myself in and walk to my office, meet with students, teach classes. Find a lunch at the Student Union. And hopefully, in the middle of this, I will wake up.

I hope.

Old Girlie-Girl

An old cat

I have an old cat sitting next to me my Girlie-Girl. I don’t know when she got old; I’m not even sure of her age. She could be anywhere from 9 to 13 years old, which I think is young for a cat getting old.

She feels lighter than she did when younger, as though her form has been filled with air. She’s not skinny; she’s not even smaller than she’s ever been. She just feels less substantial than she had. She’s in fine health despite it, and other than a touch of arthritis she has no health complaints.

She yowls in a cranky way when she’s not in the room with us. If we call out for her the yowling settles into a calmer meow, almost like she has found her way again. I wonder about dementia; as there’s nothing to be done about that, we just live with her peculiarities.

Cats’ lives

Cats live for a shorter lifespan than we do; it’s just reality. The average indoor cat lives on average 13 years of age, but keep in mind that some cats die younger and some much, much older. I’ve had cats live to 19 and 20 years of age. To be a cat owner is to watch your beloved cats die before you. (I have seen seven of my cats die in my 57 years of existence, including a newborn foster cat. Which averages out to 13.)

So Girlie won’t live forever; at this point it’s hard to say when she’ll die. If she’s like most tortoiseshell/calicos I have known, she’ll live to 19 or 20. But it’s hard to tell. For now I’m going to have to enjoy her and keep an eye on her.

We Get Older

Not who he used to be

I had a dream last night that I hadn’t really met an old friend after years and not recognized him, that it was all a joke someone pulled on me and he was still the same compact, bearded young man I remembered when he was nineteen.

Back then, he had a dark charisma (like a good English major should) despite his straw-blond hair and blue-grey eyes. I had a little bit of a crush on him back then, although he certainly wasn’t good for me.

When I met him last, all that had changed. He was no longer the attractor of my shadow-self, but was taller, paunchy, and affable. He had given up writing. Not that this is a problem — all these are signs of a happy marriage, which he had managed to find. It was just — different.

My shadow self, the part of me that likes things that are wrong for me, the me that I have sublimated into stories, was disappointed.

Of course we all change

It’s not like I haven’t changed. I weigh more or less the same as I did when I left college, but that’s because I’ve always been overweight. My hair is almost completely grey and has gotten thinner. My moods have been changed with the medication I take, so I don’t waver between despondency and elation. My shadow-self isn’t running the show and making mistakes.

How does this look like on the outside? I’m probably not as interesting as before, especially to those persons looking for dark and complicated. I probably don’t have the erratic energy, attractive energy, that I had before. In effect, I have changed in the way my friend has changed, but haven’t noticed because I changed so slowly.

Angst, perhaps, is the thing we leave behind in order to grow. I know it’s for the best, but my shadow-self is a little disappointed in me.

About a Friend

I am worried about a friend. I am not going to go into their story because they wouldn’t want me to and I wouldn’t be surprised if they are reading this.

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Let it suffice to say that I am worried about my friend.

And I’m handling it all wrong because I’m giving them advice, and I doubt that’s what they want or need from me. I don’t know how to give them what they truly need, which is undiluted empathy. I tend to judge, and I try to fix, and I get upset sometimes because they’re not taking advice.

I am not their therapist, and I can’t be a therapist and a friend.

All I can give is empathy. And I am worried.

First Week of Classes

Another Year Begun

The beginning of the school year is special, even at the college level, a shiny new time. We don’t have beginning of school pictures, but we have our first days where students find their new classrooms (sometimes unsuccessfully) and check their websites for class material and yes, even party.

The motif among the students seems to be 80’s reunion. I’m seeing a lot of colorful hair — a lot. I see some funky updos among the women. I see some skateboards. I’m waiting for the underwear outside the long-sleeved clothes.

There’s a lot of politeness in the hallways and in the classes. If the students are stressed (which they are) they’re responding with kindness.

My classes

This year seems to be a good one for my classes. I’ve had a good amount of class participation — sharp, insightful class participation. This gives me hope for the semester.

I need to do my share by structuring class so that there’s a lot of interaction and connection. I’m looking at course material to see what I can do to promote that.

I’m hoping that these classes become rich and memorable (and informative).

Thus are the shiny new goals of the new school year.

Reminiscing the Blues

Listening to 70’s music

Nothing sets me to reminiscing quite like the 70’s singer/songwriter playlist on Apple Music. It’s almost painful to listen to, because the music cuts through to my childhood, which was not always a pleasant place. I had to deal with isolation, heartbreak, and the day-to-day chaos of living with my mother. Any memories of my childhood evoke sadness, even if they’re happy memories.

Listening to “American Pie” by Don McLean or “Helpless” by Neil Young makes me feel like someone is pulling my memories out of my mind and laying them bare for all to see. I feel every bit of loneliness; I want to cry.

Yet I still listen because those are my memories. They are who I am. Remembering them makes me feel more whole, because otherwise I would be drifting through life without an anchor.

Happy memories

It’s fair to wonder if I have good memories of childhood. To be honest, I don’t have many, or at least few that I remember right now. I remember the good Christmases at my grandmother’s, I remember cooking with my parents, I remember sessions with my speech teacher (who was sort of a deputized school psychologist’s aide, I’ve been told), I remember playing in kindergarten, I remember playing outside in the summer.

Strange thing, though, that music doesn’t evoke those moments. I listen to the old music and feel the sadness. Music helps me reminisce the blues.

First Day of School

Even in college

Even in college, we have a first day of school, although I admit it looks a bit different than K-12. The students are older, and they have their share of adult problems. Some with children struggle to make time for homework; others have to work full-time; still others are fighting health conditions or watching family members die of cancer. Gone are the days when all our students were 18-24, could afford their college, and had parents who footed the bill. My students are at times tired, stressed, and worried. They’re not sure of the reward for going to college, except that it’s necessary to go to college to get a job. Necessary, but not automatically sufficient.

Being the teacher

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Being the teacher to these students means something different than it did when I was a student. I have to be clearer with instructions because they don’t have the leeway to get things wrong. I have to keep them awake in class. I need to listen with empathy, because sometimes they need someone to talk to. I can’t be infallible like professors of old; I have to work harder, stay humble, be on their level (except when it comes to course content and grading).

What this means to me

This means that showing up to class and teaching is not enough. It means that some of my days will be exhausting, and that I will sometimes be frustrated. It means that I will need support on some days. It means I need to get out of this COVID burnout to do my job.

It means that I am doing something worth getting right.