I’ve not been able to finish any blog I have started for some time now. I had begun this project as a light-hearted, cheerful oasis in the middle of an ocean of serious writings on the aging experience. As my tagline states, remaining relevant in a youth obsessed culture.
That seemed like an easy job for me, an extrovert with an opinion on most subjects and a life in a big city. I believed myself qualified to give advice on how to adapt to new places and new circumstances, having relocated many, many times, and managing to remain myself. I thought it simply a matter of adjusting and finding a new place for yourself.
I am here to tell you it is not that easy and now I am going to have to motivate myself out of this feeling of helplessness brought on by a whole new lifestyle. I allowed my husband to convince me to move out of Los Angeles and move to a very lovely gated compound in the desert. Golf courses and fitness centers and every activity known to man, but no babies or annoying teenagers on skateboards or traffic jams. In other words, boring. Everyone is in the same age group, not all that welcoming to newcomers and a constant reminder of aging. I look around and I can see my future and it is not pretty.
I have at last found a metaphor for this and that always makes life easier for me to grasp. I was a race horse before, surrounded by people. In the paddock, spectators cheering from the stands, sometimes in the winners circle, but everyday had a purpose. Training for a race, pep talks from my jockey, running with the other horses, moving to a different track or just hanging around eating hay or what ever that was they were feeding me, I was alive.
Now I am out to pasture so to speak. A beautiful pasture but a pasture none the less. No reason to put on my beautiful racing silks, (always matching my jockeys outfits so perfectly), no place to go. Even when they brush my coat it isn’t quite the same if no one will actually see my mane and my tail.
The only bright spot is that my owner/husband doesn’t like the pasture any more than I do and so we are plotting an escape back to the world of racing. That means finding a new place in the city, perhaps smaller and in a neighborhood that is conducive to walking.
I want to be able to see my grand-daughter when I want. Have lunch with one of my friends without having to leave my husband at home overnight, a practice he is not very fond of. I even miss the traffic, check back with me on this one next year. I like knowing where to find anything I might need, without having to research a shoemaker or a french bakery, in other words I WANT TO GO HOME.
I want to be back on the track, if only just to escort the young horses to the gate, I understand now, you don’t have to be in the race just close enough to hear the cheering.