Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Wednesday
Ana wants to move to Raleigh. Aside from moving to Raleigh, I'm all for it. I also don't have a better idea besides living in Savannah and just doing more of this. You know, living here and doing here stuff.
The truth is I'm in a bit of a rut. I've worked for Children's for 9 years now. I don't have an advanced degree or letters after my name. I don't have prospects that would be comparable to my current situation in terms of salary or responsibility. So if I can't offer up another plan, maybe I don't get to protest too much.
I shouldn't feel washed up at 38. I still have plenty of time to find whatever thing is going to be my thing. Look at Grandma Moses. If I started a hobby or a garden even, from scratch today, I'd still have 20 years to tend it and watch it grow before I had to wear a knee brace and one of those floppy sun hats. I hope my hair sticks around long enough to turn pale and sad. Not the distinguished white that some are lucky to get, but an almost translucent limp gray. Not even the fancy grey with the "e" in it. There's something endearing about an older man who keeps trying but is literally falling apart in front of everyone. I don't want to smell bad though. At 69, my dad is doing a good job at being old. I think he smells fine.
20 years to do something. Build something. Learn something.
I read half of a Sartre play once . The gist, as far as I can tell is that you are trapped with yourself, for better of worse. You can't escape YOU. I feel the inertia of being me all the time. Every nail I hammer sideways or board I cut in a wavey line I think, "oh that's right, I'm not good at this." Every impulsive decision or awkward conversation or passive aggressive outburst follows a well worn groove.
I'd like to disrupt it. Micah helps. This writing helps. The fence helps. There's courage in keeping on. That feels like a ridiculous thing to say as a 38 year old who still feels 15 much of the time. But it's true.
The truth is I'm in a bit of a rut. I've worked for Children's for 9 years now. I don't have an advanced degree or letters after my name. I don't have prospects that would be comparable to my current situation in terms of salary or responsibility. So if I can't offer up another plan, maybe I don't get to protest too much.
I shouldn't feel washed up at 38. I still have plenty of time to find whatever thing is going to be my thing. Look at Grandma Moses. If I started a hobby or a garden even, from scratch today, I'd still have 20 years to tend it and watch it grow before I had to wear a knee brace and one of those floppy sun hats. I hope my hair sticks around long enough to turn pale and sad. Not the distinguished white that some are lucky to get, but an almost translucent limp gray. Not even the fancy grey with the "e" in it. There's something endearing about an older man who keeps trying but is literally falling apart in front of everyone. I don't want to smell bad though. At 69, my dad is doing a good job at being old. I think he smells fine.
20 years to do something. Build something. Learn something.
I read half of a Sartre play once . The gist, as far as I can tell is that you are trapped with yourself, for better of worse. You can't escape YOU. I feel the inertia of being me all the time. Every nail I hammer sideways or board I cut in a wavey line I think, "oh that's right, I'm not good at this." Every impulsive decision or awkward conversation or passive aggressive outburst follows a well worn groove.
I'd like to disrupt it. Micah helps. This writing helps. The fence helps. There's courage in keeping on. That feels like a ridiculous thing to say as a 38 year old who still feels 15 much of the time. But it's true.
# posted by joel @ 7:55 AM 
