The Ants of Time Go Marching...........

       It may not seem a very remarkable thing to mention, but I have officially decided getting 'older,' to put it in childish terms, sucks. Currently I stand on the podium of 34 years and 11 months old. Next month I hit the banner mark of mid-30's, the big 35.

       I never thought getting older was a big deal, I still don't really care about the actual number. That means relatively nothing to me. What has started to matter to me is the independent government that consists of all the pieces and parts of my body and what 'they', the new majority, have to say about certain activities.

       For example, a motorcycle and I got into a nasty dispute on Monday night and the bike won, hands down. Or maybe that should read, Rebecca down, ruthlessly and hard. I believe 5 years ago I would have jumped back up, kicked it, cussed it out and proceeded to jump back on and go like the master I should be. Monday night I found myself lying on the ground, for an undisclosed amount of time, certain no less then 5 bones were broken.They weren't and I should formally thank the makers of Diet Coke and the formaldehyde it's deposited in my system. But the pain and lack of further desire to keep going seemed like a clear cut chant~~ I'm getting too old to do certain things. (repeat 5 times)

       It's two days later and I'm all frozen up. My joints are creaking, my muscles are moving the pace of molasses down a tree and I, the old master of her domain, feel like renting a wheelchair. This is not good. Not good at all! In my past, I've done far worse things to my body and I rebounded in record time, so what the heck is up if not age and time? 

       That wreck could seem like an obvious consequence to my endeavors, but there are other things. Like the fact I can't eat all the chocolate bars like I once could without noticing an extra pound or two or three of four. So far, I'll be damned if I go on some sort of diet, but the clear result of chocolate shows it's glorious indulgent self on places I'd rather not notice it. Namely, my ass. This was NOT the case a few years ago. When you hit 33-34ish does your metabolism just go out for an extended lunch date? I object to this milestone.

       Another noticeable milestone of mid-30's, I get tired. In my twenties I didn't even comprehend the notion of tired. I went and went and did and did until I forced myself to go to bed late at night. Four or five hours of sleep was just about right. These days when I do my five hours of sleep, I find the next day I'm dragging a sleep deprived weight around behind me. Gasp, I can even take a midday nap now!!

       As for time marching it's way across my looks, I'm good with that. Even though the last time I had a facial, the lady sweetly recommended botox and filler for a few "laugh lines" that evidently will only get worse. Wonderful I thought, penalized for laughing and smiling. Isn't that the most unbalanced reward of all time!??? There should be an equitable compromise to that situation. The more you smile, the more you laugh, the more you've exercised those muscles, the more toned and smooth you should look. It's just twisted to have it the other way around.

       I suppose what reality is smacking me (and beating the crap out of) in my 35 year old mind, is that I'll probably always have the mentality of a spry youngster. I'll probably always want to do the thing meant for young bodies, but my body isn't exactly down with that idea. So where does that leave me? I have no desire to tone things down to my age bracket, so which side wins? Do I dare admit age is a consideration in my choices?  

       I'm thoroughly irritated with this age discovery. I'm petrified it will only get worse and I'll be reduced to playing shuffle board and lawn darts. If a time came that I was unable to run up a Mountain, or wade across a river I believe I would be devastated. Maybe today I've finally realized I am indeed getting older, and not as resilient as my mind likes to believe.
And again, I think, that sucks.

Navel Gazing of the Pointless Nature

       Sometimes, I find I can look over my shoulder and discover great amounts of time have escaped by my world and I am unable to account for these tick tock moments. Meaning, if someone inquired as to what I've been doing for the past several weeks, I would simply shrug my shoulders and reply, "stuff, something, things, you know......just life gazing."

            During my delightful gazing, I've wrote quite a bit. No shocker there. I've also gone through great pains to organize my writing, a mountain of an accomplishment only I - Rebecca Anne, and OfficeMax can truly understand. Irrational fears of my computer blowing up, AOL being sucked into a Internet black hole never to return, and a house fire of epic proportions spurred my desire to amass, collect into one place and protect my writing.

       For one, I went all the way back to the beginning of this journal and printed out every single solitary entry I've written in Shadow Of The Iris.......complete with ALL the comments ever left. This endeavor required 4 separate trips to Officemax for 1) 3 inch binders 2) good archival paper 3) new three hole punch and 4) the holy mother Mary of sentimental costs.....printer cartridges.

       Add up the hours spanned over 3 days to achieve my original goal with just this journal, plus the fact my printer practically melted by overuse and I turned a bit mind crazy by the time I was done----I wouldn't suggest such an adventure for the faint of heart. By the end of year 2006 I was weeping with joy if that paints a true picture...............then, I tacked all the writing in my Office Word program....etc, etc.....

       I needed a week to recover, navel gaze and beg my printer to forgive me.

       Lets see, what else.......I helped have my Brother committed to the State Mental Hospital. All was good there, until I got a call this week that they think he's doing just fucking fabulous and are sending him home. I don't even want to think about it.

      Here's something thats been bothing me. I love Diet Coke. It is my poison of choice, my drug of caffeine, my daily friend and someoneabsolutely ruined it for me. They informed me that drinking Diet Coke deposits basically formaldehyde in your body. Which means, based on my Diet Coke consumption over the years, that I am a walking, live, embalmed corpse. Welcome to the Land of the Living Dead. Why, why oh why, do people feel the need to ruin a perfectly good addiction with such outlandish realities? Now, every time I sip on my Diet coke, which used to be a ritual of pure enjoyment, visions of mummified Rebecca's dance in my head. Double damnit.

       Not everything lately has been stationary navel gazing and formaldehyde consumption. I've dove head first (literately sometimes) into a new sport that has me outside and satisfying the thrill seeker (death wish) within me. It's gathered steam by several contributing factors, first, I like it, second, far too many people told me I couldn't do it, shouldn't do it, sh'ant attempt it.......which of course welded the seams of my reservations into sheer tenacious 'I'm going to do it just to prove the naysayers wrong' and therefore, I am. (Pray for my bones, then again, they are already preserved by toxic Diet Coke, so perhaps I'm safer then the average human, see....there's always a silver lining to everything)

       I suppose this is the closest to an update I'll ever do. I'm good. All is well in the land of Diet Coke corpses, warped printers, useless mental wards, dangerous sports and comfy navel gazing. Now, I just need alittle (ok, make that major) catch up time~~