Well, Mama said there'd be days like this...days where I'd wake up and wonder how I got here -- almost 50, 14 cents in the bank, a 13-year-old son with a staph infection he got from the swimming pool, and a husband working three jobs who likes to pan for gold -- in Iowa -- in his spare time.
Not that my younger friends have it any easier.
None of us signed on for the roles we are currently playing. We all dreamed of knights in shining armor, living at 123 Easy Street, writing that blockbuster novel and retiring to Cancun at age 55.
Nah. That's not true. Most of us all grew up in dysfunctional homes -- mothers who loved their booze more than they had the skills to cope with parenthood responsibilities. Our fathers -- even if they were there -- weren't there. We thought of nothing but daily survival. How to get from A to B. So here we are -- mid-alphabet and still trying to figure out how to survive.
Whodathunk? Who knew? Arghghghgh.
Actually, truth be known, Mama never told me about days like this. I must have gleaned it from Oprah or Dr. Phil 'cuz Mama died three days before my 13th birthday, from an overdose of alcohol and sleeping pills. Accidental...of course. Right. Whatever.
Not that I'm cynical. I'm just three months from 50 and looking down the home stretch, and I'm thinkin'..."What the hell?"
Oh, well, no time to ponder. Must pick the cat up from the vet and welcome her home, sans female reproducitve organs and fingernails.
"Sometimes, it's hard to be a woman..."