Words, Books, and Other Magic

I read this phrase in reference to a theme in FIDDLER ON THE ROOF, and it struck me deeply. It explains so much, including the world we are living in now. Because I follow the news, I can often fall into pessimism when I look at the world today, which is why I choose to read and view only light, humor-filled, man-conquering-obstacles, uplifting stories. The backlash against voting rights, LGBTQ+ rights, climate change, the environment, and the state of war (invasion), poverty, income inequality, and racial relations can cast me into darkness from which I find it difficult to climb, so my entertainment requires something that will let me escape from reality.

I get it. People my age are terrified because the world is undergoing a major shift that is foreign to their world view. It’s a good shift. It’s a great shift. Most of the younger generations, especially the youngest, don’t think in the same way my generation does. They are more pliable, more open, more fair, more accepting. I honestly believe once this old guard is gone, things will get better (except for the minority whom they were able to poison) in general. There are some of us old people (and, yes, I do count myself as one) who can and are willing to learn and bend and rethink, but sixty plus years of thinking in one way is difficult to overcome for most people. It takes work, effort, and an admission of, well, if not guilt, then at least that you were wrong. Admitting failure and ignorance is sometimes the hardest thing to do.

I’m not excusing my generation. I despise that some people are hanging on to their old tenets with tenacity, closed-mindedness, and stubbornness. Power is one motivator. Power is heady and addictive. And corrupting. They don’t want to lose it, and they see the only way to hang onto it by riling up fear. Speaking of which, fear is another motivator. They fear being obsolete or irrelevant, and that their actions and legacy will be viewed cruel, inhumane, and short-sighted. (We all are still struggling with how to accept that historical figures can be both amazing and horrible at the same time—our founding fathers, for example). Greed is another motivator. That one pisses me off the most.

It’s far easier to NOT think for yourself and parrot the loudest, most powerful “leaders.” Thinking takes work, and ideas are often scary. Making changes in how you live isn’t easy. Accepting that the life you expected you or your children would lead won’t follow your plan means giving up on a dream. Acknowledging that the way you think is wrong hurts. Progress is painful.

I’m trying to choose to be optimistic. I try to find joy and beauty where I can, and I love the hell out of those I love. And I open myself to learning and rethinking. I make mistakes (unlearning pronouns is HARD), but I make the attempt. And I need a haircut. Why is that so hard to do?

–Gabi

Books I’m reading now:

Jhereg by Steven Brust

Red, White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston

The Strange Case of the Alchemists’s Daughter by Theodora Goss

I went to Phoenix, actually Tempe, this past weekend. On the drive home from AZ, we stopped for gas and a restroom. Admittedly, my gait wasn’t as spry as the previous day’s. In the ladies’ room, the door to the handicapped stall was wide open, and the opening plus the door blocked the view of the entire length of that end. As I stumbled into the restroom, a woman came in right behind me. I moved the door and revealed a second stall. She said, “I can tell from the way you walk you need the big one.”

I burst into laughter. My shuffling gait was the product of winning gold in a senior volleyball tournament. I had played in the Arizona Senior Olympic State games. I had hit well, run well, served well, passed well, and at times awesomely in all areas. My team got the gold in the ladies 60s division. Whoot whoot! When I was 25, if someone had told me that I’d be playing better volleyball at sixty, (Jesus, sixty!), I never would have believed it. But, yes, I do believe I play better now than I did back then. The difference is the price that I pay at this age for playing volleyball from 8:30 AM to 6:00 PM.

Ah, the way the world finds a way to bring you down to earth.

Books I’m reading now:

Beach Read by Emily Henry

The Bookshop on the Corner by Jenny Colgan

Vinegar Girl by Anne Tyler

On paper (or screen–showing my age here), I am eloquent, witty, erudite, logical. At least I like to think so. I’m not here to argue my delusions. The reason I can believe myself  those things is because I can edit and revise before my words become public. Because in real life I stammer often, I transpose letters often, and I just say stupid, awkward things. I always warn people I’m in-person friends with that I will, at some point, say something either insulting or inappropriate when I didn’t mean to.

Case in point: Many years ago, I met a famous, successful author at a book signing. She outsells me by orders of magnitude. I won’t mention her name because she is rather well-known (not Nora Roberts). It was a free book giveaway at a writers conference; her line was long, so I didn’t have a conversation with her. Just a week before I had read a review of her latest that said her books were all the same. I was thinking about that review–don’t ask me why it stuck in my head–while waiting to meet this author. So what do I say to her when I get to the front of the line? “You’re books are all the same, but you suck me in every time.” Yes, I actually said that. She was magnificent; never blinked or said anything rude back to me, and handed me her book with a smile. But from the shocked look on her face, I know she heard me.

What was I thinking? Yes, there is a sameness quality to her novels, but the sameness is her style, her voice that envelops me like a warm comforting blanket when I read her. I read her before then, I read her now. I still enjoy her books tremendously, and several appear on my keepers shelf. Why couldn’t I have said the blanket thing to her instead? I started to worry about her remembering me for that stupid line. I know she meets a million people who have said stupid things to her, but we tend to remember those people, and I believe I stick out anyway at a woman’s conference because I’m rather taller than most attendees. But it’s not like we wear honking big name tags that advertise who we are. Oh, wait, we do. It’s a conference.

A few years later I passed her walking down a hallway, and our eyes connected. She smiled at me, in friendly manner. I immediately turned my head away so she wouldn’t see me. Yeah, ’cause that works really well walking down a hallway when you’ve made eye contact with someone. Mortification can make you do stupid things. So in essence I’ve snubbed her twice.

Another example: when talking about a subject and someone makes a humorous observation about that subject, I often don’t laugh. I understand it’s a joke, and I understand the humor. It’s not even that I didn’t find it funny, but for whatever reason it’s not funny enough for me to laugh. I will then proceed to address that point as if their joke was serious. I know it wasn’t; I just missed my part of the underlying social cues needed for a non-awkward conversation. For some reason this happens all the time with my sister. With others too, but at least once per conversation with my sister.

We all have our quirks.

–Gabi

Books I’m reading now:

Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett (Yes, I’ve seen the show)

 

 

 

I am old.

Not so old that I dodder, but old enough that injuries don’t heal as fast anymore. I’m old enough to remember a world without cable TV, but not old enough to remember dinosaurs. (Ha! That’s a a bad old joke.) Okay, not old enough to remember communicating via telegram but old enough to have received telegrams on my wedding day. Old enough to have gray hair, but not old enough to completely let go about caring that it makes me look old. I’m old enough to see the years whizz by, but young enough to stop and notice details.

People will say that I am middle aged. Not unless I live to be 120. I’m old enough to play in senior volleyball events across the country, but not so old that I can’t pound the ball. Seriously. I think I’d surprise you. I’m old enough to know my knees hurt, but not so old that I want to take up golf instead. Besides, my retirement sport plans to be birdwatching. I’m old enough to have lost one parent, but he died when I was young. The other one is still going strong.

I’m young enough to learn new things. I’m a year and a half into Taekwondo (Orange belt, thank you very much), and I just received my Open Diver Certification this last weekend (for the second time–long story).

But I’m old enough to have failed in my career choice, despite some hopeful and fitful starts, and young enough to have it hurt like hell. And now I fear I’ve reached a point where no one will take my desire to try again seriously. And I want to try again.

So I figure I have about thirty years left in me. What do I want to do with those years? I have family members to take care of, my own health to look after, and a couple of dogs I like. I am old enough to be sensible, but young enough to dream.

Those dreams are still as big as when I was twenty. And I remember twenty. And I feel twenty. So… thirty years. Here I go again.

–Gabi

Books I’m reading now:

The Age of Wonder: The Romantic Generation and the Discovery of the Beauty and Terror of Science by Richard Holmes

Battlemage by Peter Flannery