The Beauty of (Old) Age... or whatever he said.

"Old age is no place for sissies."

It is a well known fact that I am not good, at all, at using public transportation. I very seldom take the bus. That only happens like.... ones in a blue moon. My car was otherwise engaged, and I was planning on having a glass of wine, so the other day I took the bus. Quite pleasant, actually, I have to say. All of us passengers sat there with each our own mobile, shuffling away on the screen.

As I was preoccupied giving the impression I was consentrating doing something important, the bus made a stop.
I only sensed it as she sat down next to me. The smell of synthetic strawberry hit me, and I could hear her chewing. Eagerly.

She sat there, next to me, on the bus and smelled like chewing gum, 15-16-years old, perhaps. A sorry attempt on adding years using heavy make up. I am sure bouncers have fallen for it before. Maybe a false ID has backed up her lie.

I smiled at her, but as I took in her appearance I hid my smile so she wouldn't see it change. Smiling to myself I thought about how her youth was given away by her roundish cheeks, nervous hands pulling at the sleeves, the nailpolish lumpy from the too slow and careful brushstrokes. Her entire being was oozing from puberty. No eyeliner in the world can change that. Nor can a miracle bra.

There is a spark in young people, an excitement at the threshold of adulthood, yet holding a contempt for maturity.
The want to do it myself, which has been inherent ever since able to pull oneself up and stand on their own is still strong. They have not yet realized, let alone experienced, we were always there to catch them and comfort when they fell.

I am turning 44 next month. My youth has passed, I have been an adult for the longest of times. And I am well on my way into maturity. I am mature enough to realize I have been overweight for almost half my life. It will not disappear just because I want it to. I just have to want to lose weight bad enough to do something about it.

The young girl next to me knows nothing about the everyday struggles the future holds in store for her. She can still charme her way through life, without being scarred.

You need to have a heart as cold as stone not to be charmed by youth. The problem is: charme is about all there is.
Charme is a breath of freshness, but over time it really isn't very entertaining. It takes a lot of work listening to, and watch. It drains me of my still fragile, earned virtues, which my beginning maturity has granted me.
I would much rather be trapped in an elevator with someone old with personality.

I am ageing. I am losing muscles, subcutaneous fat and firmness. My body is decaying, regardless how well I ignore the fact. I have become more polished and my edges are not as sharp as they used to be. I have now endurance, stamina rather than speed, I have the ability to focus. And so my expressions of emotions are not as outgoing as they perhaps, once upon a time, were.

But then, age has brought me something I cherish a lot more than all of my lost features put together: complexity. I have more strings to play, more facets to show and shine from. I recognize and embrace more feelings and emotions in both myself and others. I am more forgiving. I know how to take people for what they are without taking it personal. I can be generous, with myself, my time, my resources without expecting anything in return.
There is a depth I find in myself, which I didn't have before, but which now vibrate with intensity through my entire person.
This is what makes maturity and age so much more exciting than youth, but you need to reach the stage yourself before you can really appreciate it.

And since I believe that, it is ever so annoying that this young kiddo, Ashton Kutcher, said it this well:

Word has it being busy is not a requirement.

I love words. I memorize and collect them. Still have to admit I'm not very good at using them, but I keep them, kind of savour their meaning and look for a perfect opportunity to really let the word carry the importance of my statement. I never really have that moment. Just like Meg Ryan in the movie "You Got Mail" from 1998, I come up with beautiful and eloquent replies which could have made even Shakespeare weep with admiration. Not untill both the moment and the person has long left, though. Doesn't do me much good then.

Being this balmy and corky has, of course, a lot of downsides to it. I read and hear use of language which make me burst into unintentional giggles, totally inappropriate, of course, and yet unintentional puns created by poor knowledge of language is very funny. Most likely this is a personality flaw created over time and related to occupational hazard.
I am the one likely to put up additional signs to emphasize what is wrong in a statement (This is
also how I often correct papers my students hand in... seems like as if they then get it, rather than me talking about lack of prepositions.)

Unfortunate sentences and use of the wrong word is one thing, we all still get what is meant, even though most people say expresso, instead of espresso.

Words changes meaning too. I still like to think that being gay is to be merry and cheerful. However, sometime back it turned into a sexual preference... and therefor also, I am sorry to say, an invective. There are numerous examples like that. Not only do I risk making a total laugh out of myself as soon as I open my mouth, it is also very confusing.
I have no idea why totally good and solid words with long linguistic traditions should suddenly be something totally different. I don't even understand how that can happen? How do you "plant" and reprogram a word in an entire same-language-speakers' community... let alone world? How is it done?

What whizard performed the consulting? and who acted as communications advisor?
Very cleverly done! I don't like what you did, but it was a master plan executed to perfection.

There is maybe one other thing I dislike even more about today's common use of language: I don't like how some words are being used to make yourself look better and your conduct more presentable.

An example on that is the word "busy". It is such a worn out word, and it's lost its meaning. I mean; I some times claim I'm in a stress mess, but I don't regard that to be the same thing as being busy. Not anymore. Not after I discovered how some people abuse the term.

To be busy has become an excuse which allows you to get away from anything:
I can't talk, I am busy.
I can't do that now, I'm busy.
I don't have time, I'm busy.
I'm sorry, I can't come, I'm busy.
And you know what? We respect being busy so much, that any further explanation is neither asked about, nor offered.

Some people are so busy it makes my head spin. It must be so hard to recognize  one's own thoughts when all the doings and appointments clash into a cacophony of busyness. There is a LOT of activity, but in all honesty there really isn't all that much action. Or...?

It makes me feel stressed out, and some times I struggle and feel guilty because of the way I feel and think about other people. You know, those unwelcome comments which whisper to you inside your head: "Why does she say on the phone she is busy? We are drinking coffee, for crying out loud!" And then it strikes me: she is busy because she spends her time on me.  At the end of the day there is a chance she does hurry, it's just that she doesn't rush.

To make days add up it's almost a demand to be on top and keep an overview of what happens to, and around, each and every family member. And then comes the feeling of being overworked and overwhelmed by the demands at work and at home.
You may be able to work a few 60-hour weeks, but eventually you will be so burnt out that you lose the ability to be creative and innovative. Without that you have no joy or pleasure left in what you are doing.

Holding on by my fingernails through every day, trying to work crazy hours, not only being good at what I do, but strife for great and amazing. Then at home I try to be supermom baking homebaked cakes and cupcakes and cookies, staying up untill 2am to get bakeries done and planning tomorrow and grading papers.

And yet; even though I work as if though my hair is on fire I feel like nothing gets done, ever. The feeling of being unproductive and inadequate is always present.
I have bought into the culture of busy.

We hustle and buffle and create a lot of drama and draw attention to everything we have to do.
And yes, we all claim to be busy with conviction, but do we really do it all?

Yes, I do struggle making days and things add up. But in all honesty: When I listen to what I'm saying and see what I actually do; things are not quite as it seems.

I am not remotely as busy as people think.
Half of it all just doesn't get done. If noone is crying, noone or nothing smells bad, and we are both full and warm enough, I am at peace with the state of things.

It's about time I stop bragging about how busy I am.
The busyness we claim to be a victim of isn't really being busy, most times it is an expression to illustrate the list of options we choose from.
Is it fair to say that we suffer more from having to prioritize, than actually do a whole lot on limited time?

I choose not to be busy. It doesn't mean I don't have a lot to do all the time: for example kids to drop off, bring, help, listen to... but I, as an adult, can choose not to define that as being busy: I can define it as being present.


Yeaah.... I fell for this one. And yes, I spent at least 40 seconds.