In the scheme of tragedies, and
miracles which surround us- it is no big deal. But that is wrong. I just
finished Lowlands, by Jumpa Lahiri,
in which she describes two generations (spanning 1950-2000’s) of a family
impacted by India becoming colonized by Britain. What resulted were reactionary
violent splinter regimes in Calcutta and individual lives were impacted by war
and political resistance. One son lived and died, standing up for his independent beliefs
with passion and pride against all odds. Risking, and losing life. Life. Lahiri
elegantly weaves lives disrupted, ruptured, torn apart by oppression impacting one unsuspecting family. Death, loss, birth, abandonment, hurt,
rejection, loyalty and love. How does love survive: abstract love has palpably
deep roots and then is severed by fear, war, courage and death? Read the book and you'll find out.
So, I will be 53. I am exhausted
because for 45 years I’ve worried about 1st world problems like
being fat. For 45 years I’ve worried about every stupid thing I’ve eaten. If
that isn’t a waste of time, I don’t know what is. I am sick of it, but if I
abandon my obsession then surely I will get fat. I already am becoming fat.
53-year–old menopausal women usually get fat or form fat rolls which are
resistant to leaving unless you battle them to their death. You kill yourself doing it. Trust me. I’m getting too old
to do that, or to give a shit.
This scares me. If I give up on
that then there is a slippery slope of giving up on the next thing and the
thing after that. If that happens I am sliding into my grave feet first,
because I am lazy and tired. I will
embrace this eventually and see that there is a more moderate way of perceiving and executing this experience. I’m working on it and it definitely has to do with letting go
of being such a fucking good girl. I
have to be okay with being totally hateful and bad. Revel in it. That would be
delicious and fat.
I know that I am not alone with
this. All the Obama and Lena Dunham haters out there are also infected. We all
are. And if you deny it, well, good for you.
But I’m turning 53 and even though
my life is vital and fabulous, it also feels like gravity is with me and I am on
a steady decline. My friend Anet just died from ovarian cancer. Just like that.
Healthy, alive, vibrant and just snap your fingers and she is gone. It’s cruel,
wrong, sad unfair and god-fucking-damn-it, life.
If you want me to feign joy and
enthusiasm about turning 53, well you’ve got the wrong person. And if you are
83 and think I’m silly, screw you. You know exactly what I’m talking about. At
some point you looked in the mirror and knew that clown time is over and this
is serious. However, at some point, you realized that clown time is elusive and there really
isn’t anything you can do about it except count your blessings for another day
and think about Mount Everest. That trip that you think is a good idea to make
before it’s over.
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