Fluid Age Dynamics
Sep. 15th, 2009 12:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aamusedinatxApparently my life is ruled by this rarely understood law: FAD or Fluid Age Dynamics.
I woke up this morning and felt I was 80 years old. I hobbled three blocks walking exuberant puppies and then hobbled home. A few cups of coffee and I began to perk up. I chose my clothes carefully to enhance that perk-up.
By the time I reached the bus stop I had some spring in my steps. The morning was sunny and nice, my toes are red and sparkle-ly. The scale keeps showing a lower number, I'm in my skinny, low-rise, boot cut jeans, a slinky, stylish shirt and I dragged out my Prada bag, which I haven't used in a few months. Consequently I was feeling more vital, more youthful, say a stylish 30-something.
On the bus I found myself on the phone with my folks. My dad broke into an outburst that can only have come from him having born the brunt of my Mother's asshattery over the past two weeks. (remember the raging phone call where I was disowned?)
"I want you to call your sister and have her company come pack you up and ship you here if you need it. I want you to know you are always welcome to stay in my house and we'll help you get back on your feet if you need it. You've always got us for back up."
*blink* *blink*
What on earth provoked that outburst?
It could have been my mother raging around the apartment the last few weeks threatening to disown me. It could be that he doesn't grasp the concept of multiple revenue streams for an independent (self employed) worker and just because I don't have revenue coming in yet from the biotech company doesn't mean I'm destitute). I'm not sure, but it left me a bit rattled this morning.
It was nice to hear and yet I wonder if he realizes (I think he does) that I would rather gnaw off my own arm then ever set foot under Mother's roof for even a night, much less weeks or months in the case of abject unemployment. It makes it hard to respond to him calmly and to not PROMISE him I will take him up on that offer.
I hung up feeling all of 12 years old, reduced to near-tears by my Father and his Mother-defying-proclamation of loyalty to me.
As I blinked back tears and texted my cousin Carol to say "wtf?" I was glancing downward and realized...
My shirt is on inside out. Oh yeah, now there is stylish, sexy and confident for ya. I must be four years old if I can't dress myself properly before leaving the house. So I'm sitting on a crowded public bus in brilliant morning sunshine dressed inside out. My mind is spinning. I can brazen being on the bus and walking through downtown Oakland looking like a short-bus kid, but really do I want to walk into my bank and make a business deposit looking like I can't dress myself?
17th street is a leafy, tree-shaded street downtown. I nipped into a semi-sheltered alcove of an apartment building and dropped my purse between my feet. I whipped that puppy off over my head, flipped it round and back on again in less than 15 seconds. I picked up my purse and calmly strode back out onto the sidewalk and went to the bank. HA! Now I'm feeling punky and 20 again, brazenly baring my knee-knockers in public (okay so I have a bra on, of course).
Then I get to my bank and realize that I can't even stamp the back of a check without having to first fish my glasses out of my purse and I'm back to feeling 80 again.
And all of this before 10am?!
How old am I today? Well, it depends.
I woke up this morning and felt I was 80 years old. I hobbled three blocks walking exuberant puppies and then hobbled home. A few cups of coffee and I began to perk up. I chose my clothes carefully to enhance that perk-up.
By the time I reached the bus stop I had some spring in my steps. The morning was sunny and nice, my toes are red and sparkle-ly. The scale keeps showing a lower number, I'm in my skinny, low-rise, boot cut jeans, a slinky, stylish shirt and I dragged out my Prada bag, which I haven't used in a few months. Consequently I was feeling more vital, more youthful, say a stylish 30-something.
On the bus I found myself on the phone with my folks. My dad broke into an outburst that can only have come from him having born the brunt of my Mother's asshattery over the past two weeks. (remember the raging phone call where I was disowned?)
"I want you to call your sister and have her company come pack you up and ship you here if you need it. I want you to know you are always welcome to stay in my house and we'll help you get back on your feet if you need it. You've always got us for back up."
*blink* *blink*
What on earth provoked that outburst?
It could have been my mother raging around the apartment the last few weeks threatening to disown me. It could be that he doesn't grasp the concept of multiple revenue streams for an independent (self employed) worker and just because I don't have revenue coming in yet from the biotech company doesn't mean I'm destitute). I'm not sure, but it left me a bit rattled this morning.
It was nice to hear and yet I wonder if he realizes (I think he does) that I would rather gnaw off my own arm then ever set foot under Mother's roof for even a night, much less weeks or months in the case of abject unemployment. It makes it hard to respond to him calmly and to not PROMISE him I will take him up on that offer.
I hung up feeling all of 12 years old, reduced to near-tears by my Father and his Mother-defying-proclamation of loyalty to me.
As I blinked back tears and texted my cousin Carol to say "wtf?" I was glancing downward and realized...
My shirt is on inside out. Oh yeah, now there is stylish, sexy and confident for ya. I must be four years old if I can't dress myself properly before leaving the house. So I'm sitting on a crowded public bus in brilliant morning sunshine dressed inside out. My mind is spinning. I can brazen being on the bus and walking through downtown Oakland looking like a short-bus kid, but really do I want to walk into my bank and make a business deposit looking like I can't dress myself?
17th street is a leafy, tree-shaded street downtown. I nipped into a semi-sheltered alcove of an apartment building and dropped my purse between my feet. I whipped that puppy off over my head, flipped it round and back on again in less than 15 seconds. I picked up my purse and calmly strode back out onto the sidewalk and went to the bank. HA! Now I'm feeling punky and 20 again, brazenly baring my knee-knockers in public (okay so I have a bra on, of course).
Then I get to my bank and realize that I can't even stamp the back of a check without having to first fish my glasses out of my purse and I'm back to feeling 80 again.
And all of this before 10am?!
How old am I today? Well, it depends.
