nothing right now is grabbing my attention, either on the news or off. last week worked me so hard i was brain dead for the entire weekend. i have overdue library books, com'tee meetings and a huge fundraiser coming up next month at work that's just about ready to drive all of us insane at the office.
and - next weekend is my birthday. 36. it's depressing. my friends are treating me to a pink martini concert and that's great. i love pink martini; i love my friends. it'll be wonderful. but then, that's it. i don't want to think any more than i have to about turning 36 (though it's clear i've been giving it a lot of thought already). i don't want to really celebrate it. i want it to disappear.
more and more i'm thinking about how invisible women become the older we get. or, maybe this is just about me. i'm feeling invisible the closer i get to true middle age. it's like, ok if there's no rocking passion in my life at least let there be decadent fun. (yes i'm passionate about my work and about my writing but that doesn't keep a girl exactly excited, you know?) but no. no decadent fun. just age. more hairs in unmentionable places. more evidence of sagging and stretching.
and, shallow as this is, my bras have changed. from lacy cute things to utilitarian soviet-style underwear that really do the job. ugh. so unsexy. it's depressing, this 36. i may even be closer to early menopause than i thought previously. now that i think about it, my mom went nuts right before her 40th birthday. pre-menopause. insanity. dwindling desire. increased hair growth. more stretch marks. aching knees.
(i know i'm totally internalizing our culture's shallow view of women and age and beauty and sexual desire, but i can't help it. it's been a whole year since i've had a boy friend. dammit. i'm not a patient woman!!)
The Joy of Translating
1 month ago