I Thought the Traumas Aged Me

I thought my traumas aged me.

All the childhood crap, the losing of all my pregnancies, the searing betrayals, the fights with death and disease, the ongoing fights with death and disease, and the psychological fallout from all of the above.

Yada, yada, yada.

But no: nothing ages a person like wearing her (or his) heart completely exposed and unprotected on the prosaic sleeve; aware of the devastating effects of every tiny particle of dust and vaporous breeze that touches and then and has no choice but to scar it.

At which point you’re trying to fly low behind the radar, attempting to allude Cosmic Scrutiny and trying hard not to attract more pain than is unsurvivable.

Multiplied by the number of children you have.

That’s the Crucible that turns Ordinary Sitizens into Old Souls.

My Demanding Teenager

June of 2009 through June of 2010 has been a tough year….on my car! Poor thing’s been banged up more than I have and is even older than I am in car years (1 year of human life equates to approximately 2,000 or 3,000 miles, depending).

Her latest “emergency procedure” involved a blowout on the highway (I haven’t had a salon blowout myself in ages!), which somehow necessitated the purchase of … FOUR new tires.

She is my petulant teenager, always getting her way with me and my limited discretionary funds! Seems she’s constantly asking for more and more $$$ for the gas station, facials and massages at the body shop, and LOTS of ongoing maintenance. She likes to be turned on (new battery a few months ago), get regularly inspected by some rather dirty-looking men, and now – expensive shoes for all four feet! And at prices I’d never even consider for my OWN shoes!

Who says I’m not a parent?

2010