For the benefit of my younger readers who may wonder what it's like to be living in your sixth decade of life: the experience of turning 50, I found, was very much like when you are riding a bike up a very long, very gentle hill; and then, almost imperceptibly, there comes that moment when you crest the hill and can stop peddling and begin to coast - very slowly at first - down the other side, smoothly, quietly.
All seems just as it was before you reached the top of the hill; and yet you know that from here on, there are no more hills to climb, no more vistas to discover - only the descent homeward, and at a quickening pace as you roll onward.
Not without good reason has someone said that 50 is the old age of youth, and the youth of old age.
Sometime soon my fifty-fifth birthday will arrive. I don't know how it is for women, I think they're on a different schedule - but from conversations I've had with guy friends over the years, it seems to be a common experience for men that 35 is a very difficult turning point in life; and 55 is shaping up to be the same, for me anyway.
Among other things - I have quit my job. I'll still be working for a few more weeks, but I've turned in my notice already: the die is cast, the Rubicon crossed. No turning back now.
Which you have to understand is rather unlike me - a very improvident thing to do, not to say irresponsible, since I don't have another job to go to. With the help of some savings and careful spending, I believe I can get by well enough until the first of the year at least. After that - I have no idea what I will do. Not a clue, not a single clue. But I had to do it.
Of course, there's a whole long story and explanation behind this, which I'm not about to go into here on this very public blog. Suffice it to say that for some of us, there comes a point in life where we simply cannot go on doing what we have done for thirty years, not any longer.
More than that: despite our good intentions and our self-recriminations, we reach a point of burn-out such that we simply cannot function effectively, either at work or at home, cannot perform the simplest, most necessary tasks. Can't even fake it anymore, let alone do a proper job. You would like to; you would if you could. But you can't. You just - can't.
Perky, practical people, the type with boundless energy and multiple talents who are enamoured of phrases like "self-actualized" and "positive thinking," will not understand a single word of what I'm saying. Yet it is very true for some of us whose energy and talents are more limited that one can reach a point where all inner resources are simply exhausted.
After a long struggle, one day your sword is broken, your strength all spent, and you simply cannot fight anymore, not even with yourself; the ship is swamped and sinking fast. And when you get to a point like that, when the waters are swirling around your ankles, you know for sure that however frightening it may be, you either have to jump ship - or drown. You have to choose life or death.
So I jumped.
I have no idea how or where I will make landfall, or even if I will. When the moment comes to abandon ship, you don't worry about the itinerary, you just go over the side and hope for the best. But this story could not go any other way: I did the only thing I could do, made the only choice I could make. It's not courage; it's blind instinct.
Perhaps some few of you will understand what I mean.
Right now I can't deal with thinking about all the what-ifs and how-tos. It's been a hard, very hard and lonely struggle way out here on the prairie since
my husband died five years ago, and the last year has been especially arduous; I need to rest and recuperate right now, catch my breath. When you've had the wind knocked out of you, it takes a little time to recover.
I don't know where the road leads; I only know that wherever it is, I'm going there.
Wish me luck, fellas.