Perspective

            It was a frog in his throat, Scout had tried to explain, that kept him from saying, “I love you.” A frog that kept him from pouring his heart out to her. He didn’t know what else to call the blockage that sat there, crammed between his uvula and his larynx, shutting off all communication that might satisfy her somehow, or fix their relationship.

He had burnt the toast again, Sally noticed, even though she had squeezed the orange juice and scrambled the eggs. She couldn’t believe that she had ever listened to this flimsy chatter of his, that she had once upon a time believed he was charmingly wounded, like a hunted bear cub crashing blindly through the forest. She had believed he just needed careful tending, some hibernation, some warmth. She knew now that he was simply incapable of behaving, well, human.

“More jam?” she asked, reaching across the table to help herself to the pepper. “Or butter?”

He shook his head, no, and wondered again if she was looking older or if it was just the light. He gulped down his eggs; the Mustang was waiting. He planned to rewire the entire dashboard. He loved to work on his car, loved the heavy feel of solid metal under his hands, the clank clank clank of his wrench against the cement each time he dropped it, the soft buzz of the AM radio station that played oldies while he worked.

He used his thumb to wipe away the last of the ketchup from his plate. What a glorious day, he thought, as he stood up to clear his plate.

It was like he was always rushing, always in a hurry, Sally supposed. Probably antsy to get to his beloved car. She thought she might vomit if he made one more tender, adoring remark about his Mustang.

“Well, I’m going to see my sweet baby in the garage,” he said. He rubbed his hands together, reveling in the day of tinkering ahead of him.

“Enjoy yourself,” Sally said. She thought about the way he cracked his knuckles every morning, awakening her with the sickening sound of bones creaking and rolling all over themselves, the way he dripped water from the sink clear across the entire kitchen floor, the way he left the grease from his car under his fingernails—sometimes for days. She picked up her purse. “I really mean it. Really.”  

What’s all this about? he thought, as he watched her walk out the door. He wanted to call out to her, but that would mean hours of “communication” and no Mustang. Frankly, he was tired of too much talk. He just wanted to work with his hands.

Is It Possible To Be Nostalgic Already For Today?

So I'm starting a blog today. Hooray! And I’m already looking back on the day I decided to do this like it’s a bittersweet memory. One day I’ll be thinking “Remember how I decided I had to start a blog so I could hopefully go back to work?” I'll remember the me I was—the woman with the long ponytail sitting in her pjs, typing away at 5am with a cup of hot coffee just to the right of her elbow. According to my online research (Starting a Blog 101), I need to establish a theme for my blog, and since I'm a writer, it should probably mostly be about writing, somehow.

So, I'm starting with what makes me write.

I am nostalgic about everything. It’s built into me, and I’m not sure how to avoid it or overcome it or ignore it. I can’t even think about last week without getting that twinge of sweet sorrow that accompanies most memories. Maybe it’s the world we live in. Things are moving so quickly and there’s always something new to do, to read, to share, to post. There isn’t really time for the current thing you're looking at to be absorbed because there’s already something else in your inbox. We don’t have much time to reflect, and for someone like me, someone who's always looking back, that’s probably a good thing. Given the opportunity, I could really get to pining for days gone by—the kids were so cute, the mountain air was so clean, my dad was still alive, the summers were long and loose—so being forced to stay in the here and now might be working in my favor. I'm being forced to look today in the face and embrace the present, because frankly? There just isn't much time for looking back.

But, wait! In the present, today, I'm kind of getting old. Oldish? This isn't a concept I'm in love with. At my age, I think I'm supposed to cut my long hair, dress in sensible, high-waisted pants, and stow away the bikinis. But I still feel like my same self. The previous "cool" me that was clubbing in my twenties is still in here. The "overflowing-with-love" me that was getting married and having kids in my thirties is still in here. The "teenage" me that loved walking through the hallways in high school is still in here—as evidenced by the fact that when I dropped off my oldest son for his first day of high school yesterday, I wanted to stay and follow him around and go to all of his classes. I almost just snatched his schedule and made off with it, my mind racing about the ways I could disguise myself to look more like the other teens. High ponytail? Excruciatingly short shorts? Tank top cut so low that the bra is really the "shirt"? I'm realistic. I know that the teenage me is a goner. But honestly, the "child" me who rode her bike with no helmet and no hands and let the wind push her hair off her face like a wild fairy is still in here. She peeks out occasionally, like when I decide I should try skim-boarding with my youngest, or play catch with my middle son, who throws a baseball about 85 mph.

Facing my age is fine. But I don't feel old. I am simply nostalgic for all the "me's" I used to be, and still am. And all of those "me's" make me want to write elegant, poetic fiction with sharp dialogue and lovely descriptions. The "now" me—the one in her forties who is wondering where all the time went and how she will ever finish her novel when there's carpool to be driven, dinner to be cooked, copy to be proofed, friends to comfort—she's the one I have to wrestle down into the chair. She's the one who needs to stay focused and unfettered and fresh. The "now" me needs to feel young and alive and full of potential. But sometimes, I just feel overwhelmed. And that's when I start to feel old. 

Everyone goes through this struggle if we’re lucky enough to make it to our forties or fifties, right? It's furiously cliché. And inevitable. We become middle-aged. And we do our best. We take care of ourselves. We work out. We do whatever we need to do to feel good (aka Botox, Bar Method, drinking too much wine). And then one day, we look in the mirror and we don’t totally recognize who that person is looking back. I accidentally hit FaceTime when I was trying to call a friend, and I was startled by the scary, big-nosed, angry man who suddenly appeared in my phone screen. Oh wait. That was me. (*This last sentence is grammatically incorrect, but it sounds better, so I’m keeping it. I just can’t let it go unmarked that I know it’s wrong!) Anyway, the point is…please don’t ever FaceTime me. It’s terrifying. And I get it...that makes me sound old. Or archaic. 

But we can't rest. Life is always developing out in front of us, like that route you once took when you were driving somewhere and got lost (way back before there were nifty things like Google Maps and GPS) and you had to literally just roll until you came out somewhere that might reorient you. You just had to hit the gas and drive on. So when I start feeling old, I’m going to remember to stay in the fast lane, at full acceleration. I'll try to stop looking back so much, and just keep my eyes on the road that's unfolding ahead. It’s not easy. But I’m going to try.

And when I sit down to write, usually in the early morning when everyone is home but no one else is awake, I can flood the page with all my complicated thoughts and wistful themes about history and family and tradition and legacy. I can let the nostalgia flow, and then plow ahead making the "next" me. If I keep my foot on the gas, she's destined to be someone I'd like to know (but not FaceTime with. Ever.).