It's been a while. I'm sorry about that. It's been a tiresome month, really. You have them - months like that. One thing after another, right?
I wish I could say that at least the writing is going well, but it's not. I have days when I manage a bunch of pages, but then I lose interest again. It's the same attitude I have to this blog, which I'm ashamed of (the attitude, not the blog). I just can't seem to work up any enthusiasm for what I'm doing. This includes my move. I should be excited, but I'm not.
A Health Issue presented itself a month or so ago, nothing life-threatening, but certainly life-changing. (Much time has been spent researching online.) I've been vegetarian/vegan most of my life, so I was floored by the diagnosis. I don't get sick. I don't get colds. I don't get backaches, or headaches, or any of that. I did my little exercise routine each day, including using my small weights. I'd stopped smoking, too. I was such a good girl. But apparently blood tests don't lie. Smart-ass me was stunned. How could I possibly improve my diet? Of course, I could, and did, but at the time I thought I was already doing absolutely everything right. I know now that genetics has a lot to do with things, but who knew?
Years ago, when the doctor mentioned he thought I was expecting twins, I asked my mother if there were others in the family, and she said no. Well, that was an outright fabrication. There were several sets of twins, it seems, but she didn't want to worry me, she said. What could be worrying about having twins? It was amazing! So, did anyone ever mention diabetes in my family? Of course not. That would imply some kind of genetic weakness, right? People might worry. And people might start really watching what they ate...
Anyway, I came to the conclusion that my mood of late is because of this challenge to my fitness-ego, and the fact that I have this undeniable and unforgiving birthday on Friday. It's an age where they start looking for cataracts and cute things like that. I can't write down the number. Why confuse you? It's a mistake, after all. When I see it on a form, I raise my eyebrows and almost lean forward to correct it. That can't be me, can it? That must be someone else...
Which leads me back to Le Grande Move. My heart hasn't been in it. Fatigue sets in as I seal yet another box, and I wonder what the heck's wrong with me, to be doing this all over again. I should be taking things a bit easier, really, so they tell me. I should be settling down once and for all, they say. Am I not getting a bit past all this wandering about, they ask.
When the writing is going well (proof of the agelessness of passion, isn't it?), I can't wait to get to it each day, and even have difficulty turning off the computer at night. I want that feeling back. Writing has no age. Writing, like your animals, doesn't care what year you were born. Writing can be done at 15 or 95 (if you can still sit at your computer unaided).
I like that about writing. It's so egalitarian.
