And here it is, a third of the way into September, and I haven’t blogged anything this month. It’s just that I feel like I don’t have much to write about.
On one hand, my life is just more boring than it was from about late 2006 to somewhere in 2013. I’m not traveling anywhere, living the expat life, publishing a book or doing anything out of the ordinary (the ordinary being work knit read erg row, with the “row” part happening only once every couple of weeks and the “work” thing taking up approximately half my waking hours (that’s actual math, but includes getting ready for work, commuting to and from, and things like lunch break as well as actual work time). That’s no reason not to blog, because some of the most interesting journals I’ve read over the years are from people who don’t do all that much but who are intrinsically interesting. But a) I’m not, particularly and b) it’s just the transition from having an interesting outside life to not that’s difficult.
And on the other hand, my bucket list is empty – I have almost everything I’ve ever wanted and done most things I want to do. There’s only one gaping hole, one thing that would make my life appreciably better would be to have local close friends. Other than that, I have a very happy marriage, a nice place to live in an area I really like, enough money to do most things I want (except retire!), an OK job and so on. I’ve got plenty of yarn and more importantly, plenty of books. I’ve done most of the things I wanted to do in life – got a couple of degrees, found a lifemate, learned to fly a plane, traveled to all seven continents, wrote a book. (I’ve done pretty well at seizing opportunities that were presented to me and I’m proud of that to a degree, but I am acutely aware of how lucky I am that the opportunities were there at all.) The only really big experience I feel I’ve missed out on is parenthood – and I was always a little ambivalent about that. After all, if you go on a trip and it’s lousy, all you’ve wasted is a little time and money. If you have a kid and regret that or aren’t good at parenting, you’re stuck – and it’s much worse for the kid.
Midlife crisis is supposed to be about boredom, and people taking one more chance to kick over the traces. I don’t think I’m having that. I’m not bored with living my life, just out of things to say about it. There are always new books to read or old ones to reread, always things to knit, always the experiences like drinking a glass of wine, having a conversation with Ted, or rowing around the lake that are always new because they’re different every time. (It’s possible this is why I love wine and rowing, and it’s almost certain this is one reason I love Ted.)
Maybe the other point is that I don’t really have much to complain about – it’s always easier to write when you need to vent. I began my first blog on a boring three-month business trip, griping about being away from Ted, and then once I return, segued into bitching about a difficult rowing coach. The only real problems I really have at present are that I’m too sedentary and not as fit as I was – and those are under my own control. Work’s not perfect, but then when is it?
So I’m having my own odd sort of midlife crisis, in needing to fill my bucket list with new goals. The other problem is just one of adjustment – after spending 7 years writing about what was happening around me, in my expat years and writing period, I need to tune my lens to a micro level and bring it inward a bit.
And also, maybe I need to write more about wine.