8/24/15 The Seesaw

I would like to be a size 4. I would like for my name to be Lola. And a show girl. Somewhere in my soul there is a pink feather boa waiting for a spotlight. I would like to be fierce in platform heels, sing like Janis Joplin, play poker like a whale, and never have a bad hair day or any wobbly bits. (Insert sigh.) I am 53 (that happened fast) and have pink fluffy bedroom slippers. A good day is a good parking spot, no rain, and a healthy home-cooked dinner. A great day is when my fledgling retirement fund (which has been alone, forgotten, and celibate for decades) does not reduce, the money covers the bills, and nothing aches (plantar fasciatus, etc.). My bite guard has my teeth (i.e., receding gums) in a holding pattern, I have lost no hair and gained no new sunspots. I cannot complain. “Life’s been good to me so far,” like Joe Walsh. So why haven’t I finished (started) writing the Great American Novel? To paraphrase one of the laws of physics, “An object at rest stays at rest.” Because – paper, scissors, rock – lazy beats writing every time. That and (gulp) fear. Truly fear. Fear that I will not write one decent word. Fear that I will write outstanding prose, get published, oblige a book tour, succeed and have to actually talk about “my book” (“What does it all mean? Just that? What is the symbol of the coffin? Who was your favorite character?”).   So fear of failure with an equal dose of fear of success. It is a damnable see-saw and the ride ends before it begins. Because you never get on to experience the highs or lows. Any of it. The see-saw sits in the yard through all of the seasons and weather. I look at it from the kitchen window and say, “Tomorrow.”

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