Back to Your Cave, Beast

February has been a blah month for me. Hardly surprising, seeing as it's February and all. Back when I was growing up in cold, dark Wisconsin, February was always the time of year when I hated myself, everyone else hated me too, I was brainless and meaningless, I was destined for a dull life without any real happiness, etc. I think some of that might have been teen angst too, since I haven't reached that level of self loathing since 1998.

Even though I love myself now and all, it's still been a bit of a blecch month. I think a big part of it has to do with school, and all the wonderful things it keeps me from doing. I think back to last winter - Oliver and I went cross-country skiing; took weekend trips; had cozy hibernate-ish weekend afternoons where we put together puzzles, watched Battlestar Gallactica and listened to old-time radio on NPR (I love you Ed Walker!). This winter has seen its share of "cozy weekends" spent at home, but all the fun has been sucked out by pressure. Readings, projects, deadlines, etc. Things I don't mind in moderation, but would prefer not to spend an entire weekend thinking about.

Whine whine whine. Ugh. Can you hear the February beast in me? Back beast, back! Into your cave, you... you'll never stand up to the power of... this photograph!


Yes, we went out and had some bona fide fun this weekend. We went downhill skiing. It was the first time Oliver had ever skied at an angle, and I hadn't done downhill since January of 1996. Dang. Oliver has been talking about trying it for the past couple years, and we finally hauled our butts off the couch and went. Result: fantastic awesomeness.

I had the greatest time. We both had the greatest time. It was one of those situations where I felt the hard-core excitement I used to feel as a kid. You know, how you get so into something that you can't bear to stop. Nothing distracts you, nothing sounds "better to do", and before you realize it it's 4 o'clock, the hill is closing and you've forgotten to eat lunch. I was amazed at my own muscle memory. I was equally impressed with Oliver's quick study of what can be a pretty intimidating sport, what with the speed and the crashes and the helplessness you can feel when you're first starting to learn and all. As we stood in line at the chair lifts, we made all sorts of plans.

"All right, so next year we'll go at least three times, and maybe even do a weekend trip somewhere in New England."

"Yeah, and then we could even try a week-long trip the year after that!"

"The Alps! We'll be in Germany for some Christmas in the near future - we could tack on a ski trip!"

"And then we can go to the Olympics!"

"Gold medals!"

Okay, so maybe we got a little carried away towards the end there. Who cares. All I know is, it felt really good to stand out in the sun, making plans.

Some More Thoughts on Age(ing)

In this past Sunday's New York Times Book Review, there was a passage in a review of Diana Athill's memoir Somewhere Near the End that really struck me:

"In one of her extraordinary essays, "The Space Crone," Ursula Le Guin wrote that old women would make the best space explorers. Free from the daily tasks of rearing helpless children, free to see and comprehend without vanity, loving life because we know we may have to leave it soon, we would embark on our journey to the stars not for ego or planting flags but only for the information to transmit back to our grandchildren for their future explorations. We know by then that we are part of the flow of life."

I can't wait to be an old woman.

Really, I think I mean it. Maybe all the self doubt, the competition and vanity will fade away, leaving me this wise, calm, amazing version of myself. The perfect age for space exploration. And no one will know it! They'll think I'm just some old woman; never on to my secret power. I'll let my hair go white, will pull it back at the nape of my neck.

If you'll permit me to get a little more macabre, I've also been thinking about my funeral. At my own grandmother's funeral a few years ago, I looked around at one point and realized the mourners were all so much younger than her. Children, grandchildren, a great-grandchild. It was a sad day of course, but I also felt a strange little thrill for a moment. At my own funeral, lying with my tastefully arranged snow-white hair, the people crying (real tears! tears of heartbreak!) over me will be people who, as of 2009, I haven't met. Children and grandchildren - bonds that I have heard are some of the most powerful and rewarding you experience. All those people. All those great relationships. Still to come! Still in store for me.

Really. I can't wait to be an old woman.

14 to 29

Back in December, the day I turned 29, my dad and I went out to breakfast at a diner. We had a chatty, sort of sassy waiter, and he turned to me at one point with a sort of confused look on his face. "Okay, so let me get this straight," he said. "Are you, like, 14 or are you 25?"

It was weird. I could tell from the tone of his voice that he had picked those numbers because each represented this crazy exaggerated age. Obviously, there was no way I was 14. At the same time though, 25? Just as ridiculous.

The same thing happened to me this week. My boss told me that a librarian from a different department had asked her how old I was. "I mean, she looks 18! I can't believe she's married and has already finished college." Finished college? Good lord.

I can't tell if I should be upset about this. On the one hand, it's nice to look young, right? This is America, where we say things like "move it, Grandpa" if the car ahead of us doesn't react to the green light fast enough. Who wants to age? Still, when people in a workplace think you're 18, how seriously will they take you? I guess what bothers me here is the fact that I can't tell what the cause is: is it my strangely impossible-to-assign-an-age-to face, or is it my smiling, folksy Wisconsin demeanor? And if it's the latter, should I change it?

Even if I wanted to change it (which I don't), could I?

And who says being "nice" keeps you from being respected?

Am I even "nice"? Maybe I just come across as immature.

No, I don't think so.

Maybe I should work on lowering the tone of my voice when I talk.

Or is that weird?