It is Hard to See the Steps
Just Take Your Time
While you are in the midst of living, it’s difficult sometimes to see what steps you’ve made along the way. For example, if you were 31 years old and found yourself still living at home because you couldn’t afford the rent where you lived. You wonder why you don’t have a partner yet?
You’re puzzled and scratch your head.
Somebody else looks at your situation and says, “For pity’s sake, man. You need to get your own place to live.” You start whining.
Your folks may have to kick you out when you are 41. Your parents might well be in their 60s by then, and other than being a live-in dog watcher, you still don’t know how to do your own laundry. You say you’re only 29 years old, and this doesn’t apply to you? Don’t worry. It does apply to you. You are closer to 31 years old than you realize.
Here’s another one that creeps up on people: getting old. Hey, it is a gradual thing, but being on the northern side of 65, I can affirm old age stuff creeps up on you. It seems like it was only yesterday that I could pick things up off the floor easily. Like a normal person. Not anymore. I have to consider what it is. Is it shoved under something? If so, I know I can’t get it. Is it just sitting there? Does this require a wet paper towel? What happens if I can’t get up again? I’ll need my handy dandy picker-upper thing. I have two of them — one for the front part of the house and the other for the back part of the house. Anybody else would have not only picked up the offending object but also gone on to clean the bathroom and the kitchen. Me? I’m looking for my walking stick. Sorry. One thing at a time.
This happened the other day. One of the cats threw up. The phone rang. I spied the offending mess and vowed I’d get it as soon as I was done talking to whoever was on the other end of the phone. It was my husband. He was getting ready to come home from work and wanted to know if I wanted him to pick anything up from the store. We got that sorted. I hung up, turned around, and stepped in the throw-up. I remember thinking as the phone rang, “Don’t forget not to step in that.” I did it anyway. I know in my heart I would not have done that if I was 31 years old. I sure did it at 68.
I remember when I realized if I didn’t write a book, I was never going to write a book. It is one of those indelible memories I have never forgotten. I’d just gotten the job. It was my first day of work. I walked in, ready to do what I already knew how to do. Be a secretary. Now, being a secretary involves a lot more than answering the phones and typing stuff, especially in that job. I eventually learned how to do all sorts of things, and for that, I am grateful. I came to love the job and the people there. I was there for almost 30 years. But, that first day? It was dismal. It was the promise I had made to myself so long before that someday, I was going to be a writer and write a book. I still hadn’t done it, and I was 34 years old.
I started writing that day. I had just gotten my first computer. It was a desktop. We used the 8-inch floppies in those days. I had no idea what I was doing. It took me three years to finish it. Currently, the book is in a box somewhere under the bed. I haven’t looked for it in years. I just know it is there with the lid smashed in because the cats like to sleep on it. I know there are likely dust bunnies all around because I also don’t vacuum under there anymore. Even though I tried to publish it and submitted it over the transom to seven different publishers, it was never accepted. Was it a waste? Oh, no. Perish the thought. It was my first step as a writer.
Did I realize it was the first step? No. Not until years later did I think of it as anything more than a failure. It was a step — a necessary step for me to take on the road to becoming a person who could write.
Am I a good writer? I think I am. I’ve never had anybody say I wasn’t. Mostly, the people I know don’t read much except my husband. He works for a newspaper and is an historian. The man loves to read. It was a requirement to be my husband. I didn’t care what he read, but he needed to be a scholar. He is. I already loved him, so maybe if he hadn’t ticked off that one requirement, it would have been okay.
He is also very handsome. He is 76 years old now, and he is very handsome. He’s got the looks to be 96 years old and still be handsome. At least, that’s what I think. The only unhandsome thing lately is his pants seemed to be always falling off. He didn’t have his belt hitched tight enough. Go down the stairs, and his pants fall off. It had gotten so bad that his posture was changing. His gait was different. He was hunched over because he was always holding his pants up and carrying everything that he wanted to carry: keys, phone, charger, bag with lunch, and cup of coffee. Even in the house. He was like a linebacker coming at you, charging, except he was only holding his pants up with one hand.
It was just one of those things that happened because he was losing weight. It was a gradual thing, and he wasn’t seeing the solution as being as simple as tightening his belt.
He wore his belt in the fireman’s style, where all he had to do was jump into his pants and pull them up, belt already on and ready for the day. Or the fire if you are a fireman.
So, I switched out his belt. I’d bought one for myself years ago that didn’t have a buckle. It’s elastic, adjustable, and snaps on either end. You snap the ends onto your last belt loops, the ones nearest the zipper in front. It’s comfortable, especially if you don’t want your buckle digging into your stomach when you sit down. I don’t need it anymore because I don’t get dressed. Also, my elastic pants don’t have belt loops. If I were to lose a good 50 pounds, I’d move back into my jeans and burn the elastic pants.
The first day, he went around still clutching the side of his pants, out of habit and because the belt needed to be adjusted slightly. It’s four days into the new style now, and he’s got the use of both of his hands. He’s walking straight up. It’s all a win-win situation.
I think reflecting every once in a while is important to see where you are. Sometimes, it takes somebody else to see a solution to something you’ve grown accustomed to. This is where a psychic would come in handy. Or, if you want to cheap it out, ask one of your friends. Personally? I’d choose the psychic because I probably don’t know them and will not have them checking up on me to see if I’d taken their advice.
Hey, thanks for reading. I appreciate your company this morning.
The Links: Adjustable Belt at Amazon