I had a couple of post ideas in my head, and I guess I never got around to writing them out, and poof, two weeks later. I feel sometimes like I'm at that point in my journey when I don't really get the same things out of blogging that I once did, and sometimes I wonder about discontinuing the blog. I guess some of this is because even the friends I have that read this blog don't read it as much, don't comment, and while I like reading other people's blogs and having an alias to comment on their blogs, I'm not as interested or concerned about people reading me here. There are a multitude of reasons, that I went from feeling like there was a dialogue, to occasionally just feeling like it was a monologue with hecklers. I know others have insight, but sometimes I feel like if I'm looking for other people's insight, I have other avenues in my life to ask for it. I don't feel that same need for reassurance that I once felt. I don't have that burning desire of dealing with an abusive boyfriend and wanting to get out of it, but not being sure what the problem was (and thinking the problem was me). I just don't feel as stuck in my life as I did once upon a time.
This is probably also because I'm mere months away from turning forty. Forty sounds old to me. But I remember when I turned thirty-three and I felt like a third of my life was over. And that was before my dad died at 68, making it less likely in my mind that I'll live to be 100 (but who really knows?). And more of the question is, do I want to live to be a hundred? Last year, I started focusing on living the best life I can now, with what I have, and not some hypothetical future far off in the distance. That involved a lot of upheaval, moving, changing, walking away from some things, learning to tone others down. I don't think it was particularly messy, for the most part, but I remember a lot of stress and anxiety and aggravation. I used to be friends with someone who told me frequently that I wasn't good at dealing with change, and ironically, one of the changes in my life is that I'm no longer friends with her. And you know, things that can sting and hurt, well, after a while, they don't hurt you as much. I find that the older I get, the less I'm interested in other people's opinions of me. There is some saying, "What you think of me is none of my business," and I feel like repeating that again, to myself.
Of course, there's probably a higher level at all of this, where I'd be all zen about things, acting at some kind of higher level where nothing gets to me, nothing bothers me, and where I feel armored and maybe rising above it all, without petty concerns. Eh. I dunno when that happens.
I remember this episode of AbFab where Edina is turning forty and is of course freaking out about it, in denial, hysterical, the whole nine yards. And there is this character Bo, who is the new wife of Edina's ex-husband Marshall, who talks about how she just loved turning forty. Bo is very earnest, new agey, Californian hippy. She talks about doing some special encounter groups or something that helped her usher in the dawn of her forties, some time ago. And then Edina's mom says something offhand like, "That's wonderful, when are you turning fifty," and Bo gets all ashen and her husband is saying about how she hasn't dealt with that age yet. Anyway, better to be turning forty, or fifty, or whatever age it is, than being stuck where I was. Though if I had to pick an age to stay it, it might be 29, because my 29th year was a damn good time.