Getting started

2005-02-06T13:00:00.000-08:00

Oftentimes, it seems, the hardest part of any journey is the beginning. (A blog by any other name is still a blog. Dig?) I can wax my life as poetically as the next, that I know for certain. I'm a journalist, for heaven's sake, a writer, a wordsmith. I know in my heart I have so much to share on so many subjects. Still, I hold back. Mentally twist and contort the words so much I usually forget what it is I wanted to say in the first place until I find myself staring into the blackness of space and time.

My kids, I think, consider me a freak sometimes, tossing me about like an inconsequential speck in their adolescent lives. My husband (ie, POR, in only the most loving sense of the acronym), he knows I'm loyal through and through. And he's tested the boundaries, sad to say, to the point where I mostly love him but...(i ain't looking elsewhere, though)

I'm 42 and perceiving others' pity/contempt/judgment for me, my day-to-day life as they see it, and I don't much care for it, I'm not afraid to say. I'm intelligent, I'm articulate, I'm loving and caring and disciplined and a fine cook and member of society. So what I don't drive? So what we exist, the POR and I, on working-class incomes in jobs beneath many (or at least their expectations of me). Or do they take it in stride, me being the middle kid of the widowed Jane?

Or am I overreacting (again) to a misinformed agenda on the part of others?

Probably a little bit of both.
Seriously.
Doesn't that suck?

(On stage, under bright lights in a noisy arena of jeers and judgments, the overweight woman wiggles a hand toward the audience. "You don't know me! You don't know what I'm about!" )

Word.

Middle-Aged Musings

Getting started