Nobody knows the truffles I�ve seen�
2:14 p.m.
At the party last night I chatted for a while with a colleague, a male professor in the business department whose youngest, a daughter, is in the same class as Buddy Boy and whom I remember being breastfed by her mother at various concerts and other public venues at the same time that I was a purveyor of liquid nourishment to my own son. Some images stick with you forever. Anyway, before I digress further, we were talking about having a mid-life crisis, considering that the band takes it's name from that phenomenon and is made up of men who fit that description around 10 or so years ago and felt the need to get together and play the music of their youth. Really, I can dig it.
But I have meandered again. I was saying to Keith that here I am, looking menopause squarely in the face, and I want to express my own mid-life crisis in some way. Hubby has already done it a couple of times, first by buying his 16" Dobs0nian telesc0pe and second with the acquisition of his Les PauI. What is open to women as a way of expressing a desire to relive their youth? Keith wasn�t much help. His suggestions were all �guy� things, like buying a sportscar or a motorcycle. His wife joined us and agreed that there should be something for us. In earlier times, i.e. pre-Christian times, communities would regularly hold festivals or ceremonies honouring the passage from woman to crone. We don�t do that now, and those neo-pagans who do are making up their practises from scratch since they don�t have age-old traditions on which to fall back. This rings kind of false for me. I don�t want to have to �invent� something to mark this milestone in my life.
One possibility that presents itself is the taking on of an eccentric persona, like the kind of older woman who dresses herself in scarves and funny hats. Somehow I just can�t see myself doing this; I have always been a conservative dresser and tend to shy away from bright colours and �floaty� fabrics. Maybe I could start gradually, replacing my coat with a weather-appropriate shawl, letting my long hair finally go gray and paint my eyebrows in very dark. This would do nothing for me, let me tell you. Maybe this isn�t the way to go.
On the other hand, while I was luxuriating in a bubble bath earlier, it occurred to me that I could always �change my major�. This would mean pursuing a different path than the one I am currently on, maybe giving up the singing and becoming a poet, try writing fiction in earnest, or reattack the canvas with oil paints. I�m a pretty good sculptor; maybe that�s the direction I should take. I guess I just want something different than what I�m doing now. I�m not even sure why I feel this way. It could be the classic sense that now my children are grown or nearly so, I am no longer needed for a r�le that took up so much of my time for so many years. I am sure this is what has been contributing to the feeling of malaise that I wrote about a few days ago.
Nonetheless, I shall persevere. One can only move forward, at least until the universe ceases to expand and begins contracting towards the �big crunch�, if you are inclined to that theory. Maybe all I really need is a holiday, a relocation to exotic climes, pampering at a spa perhaps, or a large box of Godiva truffles. Truffles�
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