Am…musings

Because my neighbor Marsha and our friend Kelly did a supreme job of making me feel guilty …. because I’m an optimist … and mostly because I believe God plays jokes on us occasionally, I met Match-Herb for drinks tonight.

I was hoping for an ogre. He isn’t. He’s also a very, very nice guy. And nice absolutely makes a difference in my book.

Of course, I did have a good giggle on the phone with Marsha on the way to Harpos where Herb and I met. Also, hysterical laughing ensued during my drive home as I thought about H-E-R-B. And … I grinned all the way to the bathroom after the cute guy at the table next to us asked me (while Match-Herb was in the bathroom) if we were on a first date and for some reason I felt the need to share my name dilemma. (And here I’ll interject with another Damn It … where the heck are the cute boys asking me questions when I’m not on a date??? And couldn’t Match-Herb have taken a little longer to get back from the bathroom so the cute boy and I could have talked longer? Seriously?!?)

Despite the laughter (and the cute boy), I kind of like you-know-who. But, obviously, I’m still a little hung up on the name. Now what?

*Keith (and Jadea who noticed Keith’s funny comment), the rogue “n” the title is just for you!

Sure … there are the obvious reasons why I’d like a man in my life … opening jars, reaching things on high shelves, cleaning gutters*, among other things I won’t mention here because one of my co-workers cringed when I just mentioned kissing in the Match-Herb post.

Sopping up my basement last weekend in the wake of Ike’s remnants – and in the process, assembling a wet/dry vac all by myself – got me thinking along these lines. It also reminded me of the thing that makes me feel most alone in my aloneness … folding sheets.

In my family of three, two of us always folded sheets together. While I’m pretty independent and, as I’ve mentioned before, subscribe to the belief that it will happen when it’s meant to, not having someone here to help me fold sheets makes me … just plain lonely.

*P.S. Thanks to Dad-Herb for cleaning my gutters before the deluge.

On this day, during this hour, 37 years ago, I was born – on a Friday the 13^th no less.

I subscribe to the (clichéd, I know) belief that “you’re as old as you think you are.” Also, I don’t feel (or look, thank you very much) old. Yet I’ve been dreading this day for the past few weeks.

Being dismayed over 40 or 50 seems common, but who dreads 37? Me! I also hated 26 and 34.

Why not 25, 30 or 35?

The span from birth to 25 equaled youth to me. At 26, I was on the other side (not old, mind you, but I don’t think you can claim youthfulness after 25).

I approached, was and passed 30 with little anxiety … I think 26 just did me in. I also loved my job at 29, but was laid off and living at home for 30 and 31. I must have instinctively known dwelling on those ages, while jobless and sponging off mommy and daddy, would have caused me to curl up in a ball and likely remain there to this day.

I found another great job and bought a house by 34, but had a bit of a semi-midlife crisis – piercing my nose. At the time, I thought I’d finally gotten the nerve to do something I’d wanted to do for most of my life … my second-grade friend Chowdry Pinnameneni’s mom and her beautiful diamond stud made a big impression on me at 7. Later, taking an honest lens to the since-removed nose ring, I believe I may have been out to prove I was still young enough to pull it off.

And why the dread over 37? Partly, it’s because I believe I can no longer say I’m in my mid-30s. Also, I’m two years past 35 and blazing toward 40. The age itself doesn’t bother me so much … it’s that I’ve never been married and don’t have kids. I know biologically there’s still time for kids (Cheryl Tiegs had twins at 52) or I could adopt, but I’m not sure being an older mom is the right decision for me. And in my mind, 37 treads dangerously close to old-maid territory.

Of course, for those age-related crises, there’s my other stand-by cliché … “it’ll happen when it’s meant to be.” And when it comes to birthdays – dreaded or otherwise … the cliché, “it’s better than the alternative,” can’t be argued with.

PS All age-related judgments are my beliefs about ME.  Please don’t take offense or feel I’m commenting on anyone other than myself.