I had a realization the other day that made me stop and think: it dawned on me that I’m the same age now that my mom was when she passed away. It’s not anything I was keeping track of—I wasn’t marking off the days on a calendar or anything. I’m not even sure how I realized it or what made me think of it—it just kind of dawned on me one day. Needless to say, it was kind of a strange little punch to the gut feeling: seeing where I’m at now, and where she was then. It also led me invariably to more thoughts of my own aging—how things are going and what direction things may take.
In 1991 my mom was 41 and she had me (duh)—a goofy-but-fairly bright 17 year-old high school senior who was trying (successfully) to keep my grades up and (unsuccessfully) to get dates, and looking toward graduation and beyond. Little did I know that before the school year was up I’d be down a parent and life would get turned on its head. Now I look at myself at that same age she was then and it’s crazy to think about.
I know of one other person who lost a parent not long after I did, and while we’re still Facebook friends I haven’t actually had any correspondence with him in years. I wonder if he’s reached that magic number yet, and if it was as weird for him as it was for me. I also have some cousins who lost their mom, too (my aunt), and the oldest is getting close to that age as well, if he hasn’t already hit it. So strange to think about.
On a semi-related topic, I inadvertently wound up as the old guy at work, which has been interesting. I’m far from the oldest person there (other shifts have people that are older), but am in fact the oldest person on my shift, which is weird. I work with really young people—some of which are literally half my age—and it has advantages and disadvantages. On the plus side, I feel at least slightly in tune with younger people, which I’m thankful for because I have story ideas (one in particular, for a book involving a young female protagonist) for young characters, and I don’t want to write a book about a twenty-something year old main character who uses slang expressions from the 90s or sounds like a 41 year-old dude.
On the downside, when the generation gap does rear its ugly head, it can sometimes hit hard. Someone at work asked me about a picture of my old band that was posted on Facebook, and when I told them it was from 1993 or ’94, they replied with, “I was busy being born.” Ouch. Not that I blame them—it comes with the territory. Hell, when I was in my early twenties we used to tease the 26 year-old that hung out with us, telling him how he was going to die sooner than the rest of us, stuff like that. But now, being on the other end of it, it’s surreal.
I really haven’t had much to write about lately and this is the only thing that’s been on my mind and seemed blog-worthy. In all honesty, I’m probably going to dial back to a once or twice a month posting schedule, assuming I don’t retire the blog entirely. Between the job (which I love, but now that I’m full-fledged, so to speak, requires a fair amount of overtime) and the time I need to devote to actual writing and editing (I’ve got novels to finish, people!), spending time on the blog seems like a luxury more than anything. I don’t want to stop it altogether, and I don’t think I could even if I wanted to, because it’s a good feeling knowing at least a few people out there are reading something I write (and the way rejection letters are stacking up it may be awhile before you see any fiction from me again), and writers are needy folk—my ego needs it. So I’ll keep posting as the notion strikes me, hopefully no less than twice a month. Which reminds me: I implore you, if you haven’t already, friend me on Facebook or follow the blog by email. As I post less frequently it will be easier to miss my new posts in the sea of blogs on WordPress.
So, until next time, whenever that is, take care.