Time

When I was in college and felt lonely and depressed, I would look at my self in the mirror and try to see what was behind the skin and eyes. (The photo is my senior picture from high school) I tried to see who was in there, who was trying to get out and who other people saw. I memorized the shape of my lips and the curve of my own cheek, I saw the speckles of gold in my brown eyes, and the pores on my nose. I looked at the way each eyelash came out and saw each imperfection in my teeth. I wondered whether I should take the plunge and actually DO something about my bushy eyebrows and even then, noticed the beginnings of the crack in my forehead between them. . Sometimes I would do it while I was drinking (drinking age was 18 for beer then, don't get all "underage drinking!!" on me). It was always interesting to me to watch myself get tipsy. The way I got harder and harder on myself until eventually I could no longer look at myself and my eyes closed. Then, I'd put my head down and fall asleep, to awaken all better the next morning.

I still find myself doing this when I am seriously depressed. Normally, I barely have time to see if I wiped the toothpaste off my chin before I run out of the house, but when I am sunk low in my soul, I will wander up to a mirror and lean up against it, trying to see who is in there, who wants to get out, and who other people see. Though the pupil is one eye is slightly different (from a surgery years ago), the gold speckles in my eyes are the same - and the eyebrows would still make Brooke Shields and Tom Cruise proud, but now I see all these little crinkles in the corners. My lips are smaller and tiny lines emanate from them - now I understand the use of lip liner, how it helps keep the lipstick from feathering out around old ladies' mouths. My eye lids are lower, the crack in my forehead is deeper and I still see the imperfections in my teeth. Things all over are drooping more than they used to, like my nose? What is that? Is your nose supposed to get longer? And other pieces are hurting farther into the day than they should.

This is the slippery side of the 40s - closer to 60 than to 30, and that not only terrifies me, it saddens me. I am not done living and doing all the things I wanted to do. I don't have a list per se, and heaven knows I have had a pretty friggin' spectacular life so far, but I am not ready for it to be on the DOWN side. I don't want to slow down. I am not to a point where I want to sit back and enjoy it...and with my income, I will never be able to retire and really just enjoy life.

I have PLENTY of time, everyone says...Heck, my grandmother is 92 and still drives her self to bridge and my own mother is healthy as a horse and yet....I am afraid of the end. I am afraid of the pain. I don't want to be a hunched over, feeble invalid with someone feeding me and wiping my butt. Who would do that anyway? Who will be there for me? Who will hold my hand as I slip into the blackness of forever. Who will go through my things and decide what gets thrown away and what gets kept....and who will want any of my crap anyway. The comic book collection? My 2 boxes of diaries and journals? My 14 photo albums? Who will want that 40 year old feather pillow I have insisted on toting around the world with me? Will anyone find the stash of emergency cash I have hidden in my room?

sigh....just depressed today, I guess and thought I'd share it with the whole friggin' world, since there isn't anyone here to talk me out of the Pit of Despair I've wallowed into. Aren't ya glad you stopped by, if anyone actually does? Sorry....I will wallow out and shake myself off later...