Honesty bursts forth from me in fits, in starts.
This is 40.
This may not be 40 for you.
I realize, for you, this may be 43. Or 38. or 67.
I don’t know if it’s temporal, situational, or hormonal, this shift.
It certainly resembles the week leading up to my period with its moodiness, its gentle swaying between certainty and confusion.
There are moments, for instance, when I can’t speak anything but the absolute truth; even when I know it will hurt, even if I know I will pay.
There are moments, too, when I slip into a dark tunnel, the Hadron collider of womanhood: understanding that I can’t have both what I want and what I imagined I wanted years ago. They can’t live together in my world of almost 40. They will combust there together and set me on fire.
The kind of fire that burns people.
I can’t stretch my arm far enough down to reach the me who slipped behind the back of the sofa. She’s choking on dust bunnies down there, but I can’t reach her.
I almost don’t even want to.
“Sorry!” I yell to her; the one who dreamed of lots of babies. I leave her with the dust bunnies, and run off instead to play Hickory Dickory Dock.
5 thoughts on “Putting out fires at almost 40”
Jen, when I go visit Israel next year, we HAVE to meet. Love this.
happy looming birthday. from reading your blog- you seemed to have accomplished a lot in your nearing 40 years. Kol ha kavod.
Thank you, Rina.
Much is made of the shifts of stuff as we age. I have to say my worst female hormone years were my teens, and I’m older than you and further down that road. I hope your 40s exceed every other decade in happiness, Jen.