Somehow, the days have slipped away… and in the days since I last blogged, I had a birthday. Didn’t notice? That’s okay… I was pretty low key about it this year. 41 seems so… mature. Grownup. Serious. Old. I wasn’t all about the birthday this year, though I had (and am still having) a lovely birthday. There were all sorts of goodies and cards and flowers and chocolate… I still have Birthday Week gifts to open and perhaps a few more lunches, dinners and outings to celebrate the occasion. So, it’s not as if I went into seclusion for my birthday. I just didn’t announce it every day for a month as I have in previous years. 
It seems as if I spent years thinking about what I would do for my fortieth birthday-- as if that magic number took forever to roll around-- and here I am at forty-one. Solidly in my forties, though I rarely feel like it. I have friends who are a decade younger and I don’t feel like they can out-anything me. But I am definitely 41, not 31. I am now the target of those life insurance commercials (If you were born between 1928 and 1968, call us for more information... ). I have an IRA and think about where we will retire almost as often as I think about becoming a mother in my 40s. The two thoughts seem at odds with each other… and in other ways, it seems to make complete sense for me.
Birthdays always make me more contemplative and turning 40 wasn’t quite what I thought it would be. I expected adventure and a new sense of freedom, and there was some of that. But I lost a lot in the past year-- more than I could have imagined. Forty became a year of letting go… of realizing that I can’t change anyone, fix things beyond my control or help people who don’t want to be helped-- and sometimes not even then. I also learned that I reach the point where I no longer wish to try because it takes more out of me than I care to give. I discovered there comes a moment when time runs out and hope dies and time sometimes heals old wounds and some hurts will never, ever go away.
Forty was a year of opportunities and learning; unexpected joys and startling sorrows. I put a lot of pressure on 40 to be spectacular, and it wasn’t. Not entirely. It was a year of self-discovery. Or the continuation of self-discovery. I don’t know what 41 will bring, but I don’t think I’m finished learning just yet.
I had some site issues yesterday and today, but Joelle, my fabulous designer at Moxie Design Studios fixed me up and the folks at Hosting Matters (recommended by Joelle) were extremely quick to respond to my questions… which, uh, were rather frantic at 9:30 this morning. But all is well now, crisis averted, I no longer feel out of touch with the world. (And I should be getting e-mail again, Alana.)
It’s been a weird week. I said it, I e-mailed it, I even tweeted it on Twitter. (And I didn’t even include all the weirdness of the week because Twitter only allows 140 characters.) And this today:
Here is your horoscope for Sunday, May 4:
You are still finding more weirdness as you dig through your closets or open old files—but it’s almost all positive! You should try to exploit this crazy luck, because now is the time to pull ahead of the pack.
So, I guess the weirdness isn’t over yet… I can’t say all of the weirdness this week has been positive or lucky, but some of it has-- and I’ll happily take more of the same. Even if it is, well, weird. (Weird word, weird is.)
Speaking of the good kind of weird: Yesterday, I got candy in the mail from Alison for telling her my favorite words. Weird wasn’t one of them, but maybe it should be. (If you’re curious, my favorite words include: undulate, sensuous, slippery, velvet, salacious, wicked, bohemian and hedonist.)
I’m off to make words. Not with candy, however. That would be… weird.
One of the things I love best about being writer (other than the big piles o’ cash-- ha!) is that writers love being writers. At least, the writers I know love being writers. We all love what we do, we’re passionate about it, it’s in our blood, it’s a part of our soul. I love that. Sure, we all have complaints and down days and struggles and insecurities (and the occasional drug and/or alcohol problem...), but most writers are only writers because they cannot not be writers. I know that convoluted sentence is a mess, but the truth is there.
The problem I have with being a college adjunct is that students, at least many of the students I have encountered, do not love being students. They do not want to be students, they want to be graduates (that’s the best case scenario-- I think some of them have no clue what they want). They want to be finished with the process, but they do not want to endure the process. They want to whine and complain and be spoon fed the answers. They want to do half-assed work and get a B in the class-- or even an A! It is exhausting, frustrating and depressing to grade these students’ assignments, struggling to find a way just to pass some of them, knowing that I’m not doing them any favors if I do pass them, but not wanting to fail them, either. It has been a disheartening couple of days.
I suppose the worst part of this experience for me is that I don’t understand. I like school-- which is obvious, since I keep going back. I love learning new things, I enjoy writing research papers and doing creative projects. I think I’m enthusiastic in my teaching approach and I don’t understand why that enthusiasm doesn’t rub off. Sure, I have a handful of students who are doing well, a couple who seem to be the kind of student I was/am, but they are the minority and they do not counterbalance the apathy of the others.
The semester is almost over and I will be relieved when it is. I hate feeling this way-- I like being passionate about my work. Sure, I’m relieved when I finish a writing project, but I’m almost always anxious to go onto the next thing. With teaching, at least this semester, I’m not anxious for fall. (I decided to take the summer off-- I wouldn’t be doing anyone any favors to teach a summer class with my current attitude.) I’m starting to think I’m not cut out to be a teacher-- or maybe I’m not cut out to teach what I’m teaching or where I’m teaching. I don’t know. But this feeling-- this blah, discouraged, helpless feeling-- is one I can live without.
I can only imagine how I will feel when I submit final grades next week. Sigh.
Life. Love. Writing. Friendship.
Sex. Books. Movies. Travel. Politics. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Rants. Raves. Chocolate. Lots of chocolate. Some names have been changed, some stories have been embellished. Thanks for stopping by and beware of the dog. Read more...
