Well, I’m calling it a party, but it’s actually my life. Which, at times, feels like a party. A surprise party! Woo Hoo! Except, not. I hate surprise parties!

I will be sixty-eight years old at the end of this year. It hardly seems possible.

Next year will be fifty (I’m tempted to say fucking) years since I graduated high school, for goodness (I’m tempted to say fucks) sake!

How did this happen?

How did I get so old?

How did my kids get so old?

Oh sure, people ask these kinds of questions as they age.

And they notice stuff… like how time flies by faster as you age. It really does!

But that’s not even what I’m talking about.

I’m talking about one tiny, minuscule life among the lives of many, both living and dead. Known and unknown.

My life. I’m talking about my life.

I thought I’d be somebody, and indeed, I am. Just not the somebody I dreamed about. That girl had smarts. Was deeply thoughtful. Read a lot of important books. Got a college degree. Married later in life, after having a career, and then added 1.5 children to the family.

HAHAHAHA.

Kidding.

Nope.

That girl actually wanted to get out of the house asap after high school, flunked out of community college, had a million billion dates w/ guys in the 1970s, and married the first one who asked in 1980, two months after meeting him. He was very handsome. We loved each other as much as two people who hardly knew each other could. It kinda/ sorta held us together through a couple of decades and a few kids, which we had right away, as in three under three before we’d been married four years.

Then, everything crashed around me, including the marriage.

Getting back on track in my 40s might have worked, had I not fallen in love with a Canadian who lived in, you know, Canada. Everything about our American-Canadian relationship was messy, and has remained so in many ways. Except, love. That was (and is) real and everlasting. So, we persevere.

(And yes, I have some thoughts about the current political American-Canadian relationship. Perhaps best left for another day. Or never. We shall see where the gods and breezes lead me. But I digress.)

Turning sixty-eight has proven difficult. I didn’t think it would be, as it’s just some number between sixty-five and seventy. Big whoop, ya know?

But whoop, indeed!

So, here we are, wondering how we – the royal “we.” I actually mean me – got here.

I bought a new journal, as shown on the featured photo. I titled it, “Unfinished Business.”

Why?

Because that’s what I need help sorting out.

Not help from outside myself, from inside.

An inside job.

If you have read my earlier posts, you know I used to write daily for years and years. I trashed it all, and here I am again, starting over.

It’s what I do. Seriously. I’m nothing if not stubborn!

If you’d like to join me, please hang around.

If not, lovely of you to stop by. I wish you well on your journey.

Let’s begin…

I was born in a log cabin. No, actually, it was a hospital in California. :-)