A heat advisory has been issued for much of the listening area…
This week, I turned 28.
It was 100+ degrees F and I blew out a single candle (all that would fit on a small slice of cherry cheesecake) and I laughed as my husband crooned a silly rendition of tradition and I bowed my head as my co-workers congratulated me for surviving another year.
Surviving seems an apt word, even if it also seems severe.
What does it mean to “turn” an age? Is like the flip of a Rolodex, a card that you can always flip back, or like a hard left towards hell, from which there is no return?
I am Julie Powell, pondering the past – Who have I been? What have I done with 28 years, and is it enough? Have I ever finished anything?
The lies whisper, deafening: No one. Nothing. No.
I am Julia Child, forecasting the future – Who will I be? What will I do with whatever remains of this life? Will I ever finish anything?
The hope whispers, barely audible: Someone. Something. Maybe.
I ask myself what the point of all this thinking is.
Can a string of nonsense thoughts really inspire me to change that which makes me so unhappy? Or will it yield so little that I remain as I am, tethered to the docks like a boat waiting for someone to steer it out to sea?
I do not move from my chair as the waves swell to drown me in my own questions.
Oh, how I plead with myself as the salt scrapes my tongue: Remember what once was true, for in your memory it can be true again. Reject what is presented as fate, for in your uncertainty lies the power of self-determination.
But are these too lies? Can I even hear the difference over the roar of the ocean yawning, swallowing me whole?
…with overcast skies and a 30% chance of showers anticipated for tomorrow morning.