The White Crust of Time

I spend a lot of time these days thinking about snow and blue skies and choices made and major life changes. People tell me how courageous I am. I tend to look at it as putting one foot in front of the other and doing what must be done. But when I stop and think about the enormity of the change I have just made, I have to admit I'm a little bit awestruck.

I love the work of the poet and writer Marge Piercy. Yesterday's Writer's Almanac includes one of her works, and I excerpt it here for you, as it seems on point.

I have worn the faces, the masks
of hieroglyphs, gods and demons,
bat-faced ghosts, sibyls and thieves,
lover, loser, red rose and ragweed,
these are the tracks I have left
on the white crust of time.

I miss my several men friends in Tucson upon whom I could call to take in a movie or try a new or old favorite restaurant. All of these friendships developed out of a once-upon-a-time notice of a profile on Match or Cupid or Plentyoffish. They were men who were perfectly enjoyable across a cup of coffee or a glass of Chardonnay, but lightning did not strike the table. In all cases I knew before the end of the first half hour or so that lightning simply was not going to strike the table, but that these were men with whom I could develop lovely friendships.

The next two weeks are my family vacation, my time to make some new friends. (Ty, Jaci and the babes are off to Denver tomorrow for time with Ty's dad and his family and a few days of skiing, so I'm all alone with my four-legged housemates.) I have no expectations for the several dates I've arranged.

I have hopes. I hope there is easy, pleasant conversation. I hope I don't get nervous and spill whatever I'm eating or drinking. I hope I don't turn into a teenager again.

I truly hate dating at 57. I want a magic wand that can, poof!, bring the man who will understand my idiosyncrasies and pat me on the head when the Little Adoptee rears her ugly head; who can find my physical beauty despite my post-menopausal tummy; who will tolerate and appreciate and respect my devotion to my grandchildren; who will be willing to go to classical concerts with me, without complaining that he doesn't understand what the singers are singing. He can cook? He golfs? He has his own interests and doesn't want to be joined at the hip? Hallelujah! All the better. In my perfect world, the magic wand would deliver this man into my life and we'd both know instantly and could settle into a nurturing, supportive relationship without all the insecurities of teenage dating all over again.

I didn't do dating well as a teenager, and I don't enjoy trying to be a teenager all over again.

I've made my share of less-than-wise decisions in my life. I've left the footprints that I wish might be covered over with a new blanket of snow.

Wouldn't it be grand if I could just make one wise choice after another from here on out? Doesn't wisdom come with age? Well, here I am!