Today is My Birthday!

I am 62 years old, which sounds odd to me because I spent all last year thinking I was 62. That comes with a certain amount of gravitas, which I lack. I am going to be one of these old people who are a little too loud and mirthful, I guess.

At 62, I’ve gotten through a lot. At this point I feel I could survive anything. This is not the case; sooner or later something is going to kill me. I hope not for a while because I still have a lot of things I want to do.

I’m going to spend today working (of course), then relaxing and eating lamb chops for supper. Not an exciting day, but an excellent one. Happy birthday to me!

Get Off My Lawn

My mother once said that ‘growing old was hell.’ I admit, my knees and hip are giving me trouble, and I’m not as flexible as I used to be, and I would welcome a good nap right now, but hell? It’s too interesting to be hell.

I find myself saying and doing all the things I said I wouldn’t when I was younger. Reminisce about old technologies and the music I loved as a child? Check. Complain that things aren’t like they used to be? Check. Complain about aches and pains? Check. I have, to my credit, never said “Get off my lawn” except in jest.

There are things I wanted to do when I was younger that I would not be caught dead doing today: skydiving, going on a rollercoaster, looking down great heights. Now I can’t bring myself to do these.

I’m less spontaneous than I used to be, more deliberate. More patient, which surprises me, because I’ve never been a patient person. Maybe it’s because I have survived everything.

Having survived everything, I have advice for the younger generation, something else I never thought I’d have: Don’t worry about aging. It’s not that bad.

The Rabbit Hole of Research

I’m writing a short story based on the Hidden in Plain Sight books, about some characters I spend less time with. It takes place in Chicago, and I’m racking my brain to remember Chicago, which I remember as a disconnected series of commercial and residential areas.

I try to jog my memories (as inadequate as they are) by looking at maps — a Google map and a Chicago neighborhood map. I just reemerged from a two-hour reverie of putting names and places to various places I remember from over thirty years ago. The No Exit was in Rogers Park, which is almost Evanston. My boyfriend’s mother lived in North Austin, and his grandparents lived in Hermosa. I spent a spring break at a storefront loft in “unredeemed Bucktown”, as a friend of mine from (I believe) Lakeview. I remember a great Korean restaurant in Lincoln Square and had one of the most frightening experiences of my life in Lincoln Park.

Two hours later, I have gotten no closer to writing the story. I don’t even know where I’m going with the story. But I have sorted out a series of mental Polaroids that represent my memories. As these memories are thirty years old, I had buried those Polaroids in a closet I seldom go into.

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.