This has been a heck of a 40something week. A friend sent me a thank-you letter for driving six hours to attend her mother’s funeral a year ago this Monday; one of my mom’s closest frenemies passed away the day my mother got back to town from her month-long visit to relatives’ houses. Mom had her knock-off Michael Kors on her arm and the car keys in her hand when she checked her email for the hospice address and found a follow-up: “Don’t bother.”
What else happened this week? Well, I realized that my self-prescribed 40mg. dose of Flouxetine is a bit much in sobriety. On 40mg. of Flu, I don’t sleep the very rewarding-because-I-gotta-get-something-out-of-this deep sleep of the non-drinker. Instead, I wake up 100 times and stare at the ceiling fan or rearrange my arms and legs around my blankets and pillows, just like I used to do when I’d wake up at 4 in the morning with a sugar high after a long night of designer beer with high alcohol content.
(And not to be tangential, but remember when designer beer first started appearing on the shelves? Prior to those years, I had thought that Molsen Golden was a beer as fine as a seven-and-a-half dollar glass of some local microbrew. Now the shelves are glutted with choices, and consumers are bored, so they’re making it themselves.)
Which brings me back to my week—friends, death, sleeping, friends. These are the worries of this 40something woman. Oh, and then there’s the kids’ growing up and roaming aimlessly after school and not calling you to tell you where they are and then, after you finally track them down right before calling the police, having to have “that talk” about trust and responsibility. Fuuuuuuuuck.
I didn’t sign up for that part (well, I actually did.), but it’s a hoot compared to my Mom’s stage in her life. I sent her a sympathy card for her friend, too, because why should only the family mourn the loss of someone they care about? Even if those friends were co-dependently bonded and sometimes hung up on the other and bitched about the other and then turned around and stepped up for each other, they were still friends. Some of my earliest living memories include this woman’s children, who are all forty-somethings like me now. My mother’s and this woman’s friendship has existed as long as we have.
So, friends… I’m still not done with the week. My dog had a seizure for the first time ever, on a hiking trail. That’s the first time I realized that if something happened to an 87 pound dog on my watch then I would have to be the one to carry him to the car. I’m gonna start lifting weights for real. Luckily, the dog recovered, and I got him to the vet. His declining health is not the subject of the story, though, but the fact that I used his declining health as an excuse to cancel plans with a friend.
My husband and I are the lord and lady of canceling plans. We’re building up quite a rep these days. I know why we do it, though. We’re NOT in our thirties anymore, and I don’t mean for that to sound like we’ve become geriatric. We just understand the benefit-cost ratio of honoring certain plans and canceling others. We want to be active participants in all of them, but when it comes time to accept what participating means—driving forever to someone’s place, not being able to find a parking spot, wandering the Saturday streets full of loud drunks, and then driving home—we recognize the moments ahead of us are finite and decide it isn’t worth the aggravation. Plus, I’m not drinking, so why go to a bar? The benefit-cost-ratio is very high in favor of staying home.
And that’s my week, my unedited, written version of my heavily-edited week. Somehow, I suspect I’m not the only one of my peers to have weeks like this from time-to-time.