I spent a lot of time this year working on a project that more or less fizzled out when I realized it was not going to make it. It was one of those projects that took over everything in my head, one where I thought, “Yeah, this is the one. This is going to change everything.” And then it’s not the one and it doesn’t change everything, and that’s okay. It stings a little to have to take my lumps and move on, and it means I lost a lot of months to a thought process that ended up not getting me where I thought I needed to be, but that’s how life works and that’s how we big-brained monkeys learn and it’s evolution, baby. I learned things and I think I’m better for it in several ways, although I’m still not where I want to be and I’ve got a lot more grey hairs sprouting like tiny fireworks from my scalp than I did this time last year. (I stood in front of the mirror the other day and tried to pluck the ones I could see, and then I found a patch, a whole village of them, living together, and had to stop plucking or risk a bald spot. That is a corner turned.)
In some ways I feel ancient and world-weary and in other ways I feel like I have another life that’s incubating just below the surface and waiting to hatch when conditions are perfect. I’ve been super productive for a few weeks now, with little bursts of creativity here and there that have surprised and delighted me. I’m also quite exhausted and, in strong lighting, I look like a nightmare. I should get more sleep and drink more water. But there aren’t enough hours, are there?
In a couple of weeks I will turn 32, which is an age that is respectable and boring. I feel 32 in every possible way. I’m not complaining, necessarily.
Change “weeks” to “months,” and I could have written this exactly.