Forty or Bust

Sitting at the café after a whirlwind week, an old couple shares the table next to me. Hearing aid protruding, he leans toward her, “Huh?” They must be late seventies. She enunciates clearly, “My love life is on the rocks since my son moved in with me.” She hangs her head and giggles. He starts in about all the people who have died, and they express awe for those who remain lucid till the end. She invites him to dinner, explaining that the other guests coming have this or that food restriction, some can’t eat tomatoes. He tells her to stop being so accommodating and calls she’s a martyr. She quips, “If they can’t eat it, fuck em.”

I choke over here, biting my lip. She laughs harder and draws circles with her finger to illustrate how he goes around the senior center flirting with all the women. Pause. She hopes there’s not ice on the highway. They talk about weather. He reaches, strokes her hand, “Let’s go sit in your car and talk.” She belts out a laugh, “But I have to go and make cookies!” Like a boy, “Just two minutes, I swear.”

Ah, good to be out of the house.

I spend my time counting calendar days, fishing for fertile windows like an old douser. Just now, a flash of memory – my father fly fishing in Wisconsin, rushing stream, hip boots and free hair, and how I admired that wildness from the shore.

These days I pass the TV, block the basketball game, “It’s time, we better do it now,” I remind Steve. Within the hour, usually the midnight hour, waiting, I fall asleep, gone to the night.

I took Clomid for five days last week so this week, calmer waters. Sidebar, though: out to eat the other night, Steve orders Mexican food for River. When it comes to the table I say that she might get sick if she eats his food – because I see that it’s too spicy. Five minutes later he says, “Are you on that medication?” I say no and ask why. Disgruntled, he says that it’s the only reason I would think our daughter would get sick from eating food he ordered. Huh???? Ok, whatever dude.

I said it was tricky territory.

In two weeks I turn forty. While I believe Oprah and all the fabulous women I know who attest to the lightness of being in this next decade, the one I see in the mirror is looking weary. I used to secretly stand in the doorway and watch my mother dress in the morning. Caught, she always slammed the door, ferocious hiding. I stand at that threshold still, only now it’s me just out of the shower, startled. But I don’t slam the door. I take a step closer to the mirror and take in all the details of aging. No more hiding, I want it straight.

Can I say just how pissed I am about the Blogger Beta thing? WTH? I tried to switch and it won’t let me without creating a whole new blog. I guess you have to be invited? Jesus! So in the meantime, I can’t comment and some of you can’t comment here. Aaaawwkk! Ok, so email please. If you know secrets, tell all….