Wherein I Verbally Regurgitate Onto Virtual Paper =or= A Little Something For The Insomniacs...

It hit me earlier today.

I'm 45.

Yeah, I know I had a birthday and did grasp the fact that I'd hit 45 years old, but today the little lightbulb went off over my head.


My life is probably more than half over. Well, I might make it to 90; my grandmother almost made it to 100, but I'm not counting on it. I'd like to, seeing as how dying is my #1 fear, but I know the odds probably aren't in my favor.

So it's likely more than half over. It's at this point a lot of people sit back and panic because they haven't done what they wanted to to. My problem is that I sat back and panicked because it occured to me that I have already done the things I wanted to do.

I wrote a book. Heck, I wrote more than one. Feedback on them has been favorable, including Most High Praise from my father-in-law, who said to me not 2 months ago that Finding Father Rabbit was his favorite. Since it's my favorite, too, that meant a lot. Getting rich off them was never a part of the picture, so not hitting the New York Times Bestseller list has not been a disappointment. It would have been nice, but... I never wrote for money. I still don't. Although I would accept payment, for sure.

I raised a kid and didn't screw him up too badly. And the Spouse Thingy and I are still together, and so far I don't think either of us has harbored thoughts of spousal homicide.

Ok, I haven't. I shouldn't speak for him.

I've had a really good life...but I've done what I wanted to do, I've hit the high points that you dream about when you're too young to have a full grasp on what Real Life can do to a person.

There should still be a whole lot left to want at 45, right?

(Aside from material stuff. I have a long list of crap that y'all can chip in to buy me. Heck yes I can be materialistic, and I'm not ashamed. I like toys. Big toys.)

But in the grand scheme of things, there should still be things I want to be. But I'll be damned if I can think of any.

That should make me happy, right?

It does...but since I'm not done, I don't want to be done.

I'm still writing, fighting the same story I've been fighting for at least a year (it's slowly worming its way out) but I think I want something different.

Like a job.

That's not exactly being something or reaching for IT, but it's something. The problem with getting a job is that requires asking for a job, getting through an interview, and I completely, totally, overwhelmingly suck at those things.

Beside, what could I do?

I have no skills, really.

I'm 45 and I've done all I really wanted to do, and I have no skills to show for it.

Unless someone out there wants to hire someone who is obviously verbose, which obviously I am, because this is going on and on and on... This is what happens when I think out loud.

I talk in circles, and put others to sleep.

You're welcome.

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