It is October, right on the brink of the season of the Crone and here I am, crawling over the finish line into my own Cronedom. If life is a marathon, I arrived here with my nipples bleeding, devoid of sweat to lose, and likely having lost control of my bowels at some point. Fortunately, most of this may be filed under “metaphorically speaking.”
I intended to write a post about my Croning, which appears to be official. As I am wont to do, I went into Google Images to search for an eye-catching, marketing appropriate Croney image, without usage restrictions, of course, to use as a header for this column. Guess what I found as an official result when searching for the word “crone?”
That is correct. Right there next to the baby toilet or bidet or whatever that is, some lovely besoms, an erupting volcano, and a feel good sunflower, I found…me. Well, holy shit. Since Google is the Encyclopedia Britanica of our era, it must be true. I am croned. Had I known it was coming so quickly, I would have baked a cake. Goddess knows if I had, I could have eaten it before I went carb free.
The photo actually accompanied an article I wrote that received some attention called “Romancing the Crone” sometime back when I thought I had a clue about going into Cronedom.
My last period was in July, so I guess that qualifies since this is October. I am not officially menopausal until a year without my uterus making every place I rest for more than ten minutes to look like someone should call in a CSI team. This is, however, officially missing enough periods to be rolling quickly down the Hill of Aged. I contributed well to the population with six healthy babies shooting out of my body over the past forty years, so I have no regrets or longing where my fertility is concerned.
The youngest of my six got his drivers license today, actually at seventeen instead of sixteen. My nineteen-year-old moved out of the house the first week of this month and shows no interest in visiting. He relishes his independence, has a great job, and is full of success and vigor. This means the two youngest of my birdies sit perched on the side of my emptying next, ready to jump.
So what are my Crone symptoms?
Besides Google identifying me as a search result for “Crone?”
My youngest grandchild of my two just turned twelve.
Only one of my children lives at home for the first time since 1980.
The senior menu at Denny’s is mine for the taking if I choose to do so and get a senior discount at the thrift store I frequent.
I have outlived my father by four years and in five years, will have outlived my mother.
The people I went to school with are starting to drop dead like flies.
I eat according to the Keto diet to lose weight not due to vanity, but because my left knee is irritable. I do not wish to stress it to the point that it makes me immobile again. My weight loss journal, is at www.fatasticjourney.com and there is a Facebook group you can join for it as well.
Without my reading glasses, I am blind as a bat.
My memory is not what it used to be.
I hate talking on the telephone and will sometimes yell, “Get offa my lawn” when someone phones me and hang up. Sheesh, text or email me already.
When I drop something critical onto the floor, rather than swoop down and grab it immediately, I look at it and think, “Damn.”
Clothes shopping involves the prime directive of, “Can I sleep in this?”
Although my patience is completely shot, my ability to give a shit about most things is also depleted, so it is kind of a toss up.
It’s official. I am old.
Like Tony Soprano’s bullet, I did not see it coming. I thought of it as a concept and embraced it fully. Truly, I still do, but that makes it no less surprising to find it is here. I have always loved getting older and I still love everything about it except for that whole mortality thing. My younger years hold little appeal for me except to correct some real screw ups I made. I like myself so much more now.
And yet, I feel the Death Crone sniffing around, even though women in my family often live to triple digits old.
I feel something slipping out of my grasp that I need.
The suspicion that I wasted so much of “it” lurks in my mind and I can’t shake it.
Meditating and praying these thought away helps, but does not cure.
One blink and it was almost gone.
The Crone Me is here and I do enjoy her company, although many do not. My nurturing side does not come forward as much. My filters are a bit sloppy.
Part of me wants to cry, “Please don’t forget me. I might disappear.”
Another part of me wants to set the world on fire just to watch it burn.
Another day has passed and the thought lingers that I did not engage enough, did not do enough, did not create enough, did not experience enough.
I suspect that once I get the flow figured out, it will be time to cross yet another finish line.