Things About 104

The other day I got to visit somebody who will be 104 in a few days. 104 years old - in human years, even - and she's got a quick tongue and a sharp wit and sometimes gets those two things confused, which, at 104 is Exactly All Right.

She told me that perhaps it was time for me to consider a new profession because what I do and the means of doing it can be rough on a body. She's not wrong. At 104, you aren't often wrong. She wasn't quite feeling herself, a little disoriented, as so she was in the hospital. She told us that if anything she said made sense that somebody should take note of it. If you're 104 and aware that you might be saying things that don't make sense, I think you're probably doing pretty well.

She said that she never planned on being 104 and wasn't quite sure how it happened. It just flew by, she said, and the closer she got to 104, the faster it seemed to come. Here I stand at 40, thinking it took me positively forever of doing All the Wrong Things to get here, and she says that 2.6 times my years happened so fast she can't account for it.

She said that she wasn't sure why God wanted her to be 104. That she wasn't sure what she was supposed to be doing. As if taking some time to visit the Critical Care Unit at the local hospital wasn't preoccupying her, or even important in the slightest.

At 104, she has plenty of advice to give, and absolutely no reason to not give it. She recommended thinking hard about my future, and how I want it to be, which is something that I tend to avoid because it's Scary. She said that I can do whatever I want. At 104, I guess she would be an expert. Maybe she became an expert from doing things other than what she wanted, or maybe she always did exactly what she wanted. Either way, it's good advice, because I CAN do anything I want.

She thinks being 104 isn't a big deal. It's just something that happens. Granted, it happens to less than .02% of the population in the U.S., but still... I don't think I have ever belonged to a demographic so elite. Other than percentage of Homeschooled U.S. Residents with the Last Name Stecker and Multiple Pet Dachshunds, or something ridiculous like that. Actually, there's probably a lot of us like that, so never mind. 104 is special. It's rare. Although researchers say that by the year 2050, that percentage will have grown nearly tenfold, so in another three decades, our odds of making it to that age improve greatly.

In the meantime, my 104 year old friend is a long term anomaly in a world with a shrinking attention span. She's pragmatic and practical, still sporting a sense of humor and an analytical eye for success and efficiency. She was born in 1914. She's seen this country through a half dozen wars, technological progression, economic depression, recession, and cultural revolution. When she was born, most homes didn't have electricity. Now most INDIVIDUALS have hand held devices that connect them instantly with The Whole World. When she was born, automobiles had only been commercially available in the U.S. for six years. In 1914, planes had barely gotten off the ground. When she was born, white males were the only legal voters.

Compared to the changes that she has witnessed, our own societal and cultural changes seem to be crawling at a snail's pace. It's hard to imagine, but it's easy to understand the black and white worldview that more than a century has given her. Of course I can do anything I want. Look at the last 100 years. Anything is possible. Who knows? I might live to be 104, and I can only hope, still possess a quick tongue and a sharp wit - only occasionally confusing the two.

The view from a 104 year old's home. She's got it figured out. 

Things About the Whelm

"I know you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but can you ever just be - whelmed?" - Chastity, 10 Things I Hate About You 

it's a long road to... somewhere. 


I am some level of whelmed right now.  I am overwhelmed with the amount of mental and emotional energy that I'm supposed to be putting into a lot of things right now, but I am underwhelmed with the payoff of said things in the near future. Sure, they're investments in the bright and beautiful down-the-road, or whatnot, but being an instant gratification kind of a girl, I find myself making up for the over and the under whelming by avoiding it all and throwing tantrums. Does being caught right in the middle make me just whelmed? Or is it cabin fever? I feel bad calling it that since I get out to do more cool things than a lot of people I know, and I really can't complain. Even so, here I am, discontent as always, complaining.

All the energy goes out, nothing comes back in except some piddly paychecks and well meaning criticism. It's frustrating. I'm not even sure what to look forward to because nothing is certain, nothing is guaranteed. It's Friday. For some people, the weekend means a break. For me it means more work and instability than the other days. I've grown to distrust weekends with their shiny attractiveness and poor followthrough. They're just like every other day of the week. Disappointing. They just keep coming and going and I am stuck running in place on the slimy log of time as it rolls in the sludge, trying not to fall off into the pit of despair.

The problem I have, according to some of the self-help books I am reading, is two fold. 1) I give too many f***s about things I shouldn't (i.e. everything), and 2) I bought into the bull crap that life is supposed to be good, or pleasant, or that happiness actually matters. I'm trying hard to give less f***s. But I still can't understand why we're here if we spend the few years we have just being miserable so that we can die. And here we circle back to the meaning of life and ages-old rhetoric of "bringing glory to god" "being a good person" "making a difference" "earning a mansion in heaven along streets paved with gold and choruses of angels lining them - but no dogs because animals don't have souls" kicks in. Blagh. Meh. Poop the duck.

I want a life full of happiness like warm crusty sourdough bread with way too much butter and swirling glasses of dry red wine. I want dogs. I don't want to be a 'good' person. I want to make people laugh. I want to be a memorable person.  I want to be making moments that make the meh days manageable.

For awhile, I was on the 'no bad days' band wagon. But I've realized that that ideal is just as unrealistic as streets of gold or being a good person. There are bad days. And bad weeks and bad months and bad years. Like my brilliant baby brother says, if all days were perfect, there would be no perfect days. It's ok that some days are bad. As long as some days aren't. I am trying to focus more on the 'no wrong turns' philosophy, that tells me that even meh days are serving some purpose down the road. Even if it takes EONS of suffering to get there. Meanwhile, here I sit, in The Whelm, with my bad days and my misguided ideals and misplaced f***s, waiting for something that I haven't quite identified yet. Probably sourdough bread.