Being 36, not 24, but 36!!! : Will My Measurements Grace the Cover of a Rolling Stone?

Shake your groove thing...shake your groove thing...Yeah! Yeah!

 

I’ve come to my solar return: the time when the Sun approaches the spot in the sky when I was born. 

It should be a time when I reach a mid-life peak, the time when my career, personal relationships and objectives combine naturally and positively. Well, that’s a dream…I’m rolling ahead on a moss-covered stone aimlessly.

Taking measurements is something most do of their lives. We inventory the good, bad and uncategorized. Here’s my current stock:

Good

·        Alive

·        Not a prisoner, per say

·        Semi-educated

·        Have a computer & books

·        Use the library more now than in high school/college

·        Delivery of papers makes me some cash

 

Bad

• Not using my brain effectively
• Unable to pay bills
• Not getting much of what I desire
• Waste time
• Depressed at family matters
• Want to be in Cabo
• Alone

So where to go next?

Career.  Much of the past 5 years I have focused on the idea of writing in various ways. Short stories, business plans, editorials, nonfiction, technical analysis, blogging and a book project. I have no idea if this really has improved on my abilities. Granted, practice helps. But unless results come, it is just a practice in futility.

 

Confidence is pretty hard to come by when I look into the mirror, or see that under all the wit and want, I am just as flawed today as I was in 2000-01.

 

Ideas are nice. Plans a plus. Dreams, yep. But unless they are taking you to the Great Wall of Writing, you just aren’t cutting the mustard or slicing the cheese right baby.

 

I don’t want the cover of Rolling Stones magazine. Just enough to pay my way: and maybe not have to think about the past at all.

 

But also to be real, I haven’t the talent to really write. A few people that have graced me with their presence on these blogs have told me, “you can write,” or “you have a way or something…” But nothing really specific. And honestly, I feel they really mean: “You write pretty good…for a convict.”

 

Personal relationships. This has to be the ultimate joke. On a scale of 1 to 100, I’m  an 11.  (Spinal Tap ref.)  This means if I were nearly the last man on Earth, ladies, I’d better swim to the Arctic (with a heat pad, of course) and become one with the remaining polar bears before the final melt. (Various happy levels are below.)

So what's your score?

 

As you can see, I’m down below where pitchers Roger Clemens and Eric Bedard inhabit currently.  Erin Burnett (Wall Street’s money honey) isn’t doing so well either in 2008.  But Theo Epstein and Erin Andrews are scoring buckets of love, like Michael Jordan in the early 1990’s.  I’d be happy where Stewie is.

 

My relationships would be like a Will & Grace episode.  (Without the confusion of the gay/straight thing…) I wouldn’t be able to settle on one thing I want in a person. So, instead of that, I usually take what bits and pieces I get from frivolous, half-baked potatoes (a formula for bad vodka) you can meet out at whatever watering hole happens to be cheap, yet clean. (Which ain’t many in NW Indiana…)

 

This perusal ends up a filler for anything meaningful. People do tend to suck. Whatever I lack in charm is surely noticed. Whatever they lack in conversation, or interests, gets noticed too. 34-23-33 measurements won’t salvage much. And neither will my “insufficient funds.”

You gotta pay to play.

 

Unlike Will & Grace, I don’t have quirky, queer quintessential friends to fall back on. Those Karens and Jacks you need to keep you from drinking too many hi-balls while feeling like a low-baller.  Unless Karen is pouring.

 

I’ve also met my fair share of cold halibuts in the pursuit, quest or whatever adjective works, of love or lust. (Whatever long-term avenue takes you home…just don’t snap a heel.)

But admiration is my business now. You can’t actually talk to anyone without a prim and proper introduction from a Fav 5 member. Or at least the appropriate 30 minutes of bump-and-grind on a dance floor. Maybe Jell-o shots. Maybe a fundamentalist church…they take the losers in. Praise Jesus!

Long-term Objective. If I had one overriding objective it would be to get the hell out of the Midwest. Somehow, with the lint in my pockets, I would head to an off-the-mainland repose, work on my tan, keep myself fed and begin to build a modest cottage. (See below…)

 

A nice studio style apartment on a beach.

 

Nothing fancy, but a strong, breeze-filled place.  An ocean wanting nearby. Coconuts and Bananas and Fish I can catch and cook.  That’s the dream.

 

I’d take my books – maybe 750 in all, now – and read them, collect more, and write that best seller, or two, if the waves and sun and sand don’t get too much in the way.

I would gladly do this because there is too much stress in my life. 

 

I’ve worked for 24 years at crappy jobs, at good jobs and at no jobs at all. What I’ve learnt is, I was never cut out for a punch-the-clock-til-you-die position. Sure, others don’t want that either. But do it nonetheless.

 

Yep, I should ignore my instincts, and be miserable because that’s what our society tells us to do. (Not exactly, or so directly, but that is ultimately their goal. To control the aspects of your production to get you consistently making it…)

 

I don’t want to be a communist, or socialist about it, just free to make my own accord. Not every damn, good place on Earth to live should be owned by the rich and connected. And I want very little – enough to survive in peace.

Yep, that is just a birthday wish.

 

I’ll be delivering papers (if the car gets fixed) and writing frivolity for the remainder of the time I have. I’ll be poor, but not as poor as a Chinaman or African. They really have it really bad. And little in the way of changing it.

Me and Mary Ann - Castaways here on JayPeeFreely's Isle!!!

My ideal measurements for a good life are simple: a nearly free career of writing, reading books, dating/settling down with a warm, intelligent, athletic and saucy woman while living in a 600 sq. ft. shack on the beachfront with a generator, fishing pole, fish nets and fruit a plenty.   By Will and Grace I might get it.   Or I might get Gilligan’ed. (Sans Mary Ann.)

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