At Christmastime, my sister made a point of saying she is careful about covering the grey in her blonde hair. I didn’t bite. I am in fact wishing my greys would get a move on. So far, it only looks like random tinsel in my brown locks, what’s left of them. It does shine in the sunlight, and my stepdaughter Emily told me how pretty it is. Now, who would you believe?
I am in the ‘at my age’ phase of my writing, and along with purging possessions and projects that no longer serve me, I am leaning into avoiding that which makes me uncomfortable or unduly annoyed. This includes going barefoot in winter, keeping the thermostat turned low, skipping naps, and traveling over ten minutes to attend an event, even on the weekends. I came close to walking out of a movie on Friday night, but my Beloved seemed amused so, for $10, I stuck it out. It did pick up towards the end, but not enough where I might have regretted leaving after all.
I can’t say Marie Kondo has been a life changing influence on me, but I do fold my bras and undies in a more efficient way now. I am also trying to release items I have schlepped with me for four decades, from apartment to apartment, and now even to this house I’ve been in for over twenty years. I thank it, remember who I was when I bought it, then let it go. Our charities are overflowing with COVID era donations, and Salvation Army isn’t even in the running these days because of their vile actions against the LGBT community, but there are Tibetans nearby who can use the stuff.
This selective mindset includes my poetry life as well. There are fewer “live” readings to attend, but that doesn’t mean I cram my Zoom dance card with virtual events. As I teeter on the edge of retirement (from my mouth to the Calendar’s ears), I find that more and more of my peers are scheduling events for midday or afternoon, making it impossible for me to attend after my workday ends. Many of these include events well out of my ten minute range, I am sorry to say.
When I was single, I thought nothing of zipping up to the Capitol District, or down to Beacon or Middletown any night of the week, and still get to work by 8:00 a.m. the following day. My eyesight has held so far regarding night vision, but it’s the energy I’m lacking. I get up most days at 6:00 a.m. to enjoy an hour or so of diddling with words and stalking my fellows on the Internet before my actual workday begins. Now thank goodness for remote channel changers, because pressing buttons is pretty much all I’m capable of after 6:00 p.m.
When I plan to attend a reading, I research the poets that will feature. At this point, I know whose work is just plain self-indulgent drivel (this includes my own work very often, but I try not to inflict it on the general public without apology), whose work is repetitive, and whose public reading skills leave much to be desired. I avoid certain hosts who do all they can to outshine the very features they’ve selected, in the most outrageous ways possible. My filter wanes, and I may someday do myself significant mouthy harm when it comes to being invited to any of these events, but I care less and less every day.
You might say I’ve been Marie Kondo-ing all aspects of my life. I hope to squeeze another twenty years out of this before I’m finished, and every minute counts. Every evening I spend flipping through YouTube with my Beloved counts for a lot. Selectivity, and nicely folded undies. Can’t beat it.
