I know. I take off an entire year, now I just can't stop writing. So much to document. The Walk. The Man. The Kids. Of course, people used to read this blog. Now, it's just me. No worries. I have reached that point in my life where I understand what's truly important. Who'd have ever thought that an angst-ridden, self-conscious chick like me would get to the point where other people's opinions don't matter? Or, truth be told, matter less?
True story: My brother, his wife, me and my kids were in my brother's Honda Pilot last Christmas, going to Stanford to return Christmas presents. My brother and I share a love of Alison Krauss and Shawn Colvin. But lately, my brother's taste in music has devolved, as evidenced by the Glee soundtrack streaming from the Pilot's speakers that day.
Mike: "Uncle Dennis, your music sucks ass."
Uncle Dennis: "You know what's great about being middle-aged, Mike? You don't give a shit what other people think. And you're going to love the Michael Buble CD I got coming up next."
I turned 50 in May. I no longer care that I can't fit into a size 8. I no longer care that I don't fit into your group. I no longer care that there are tumbleweeds of dog hair drifting around my unpolished hardwood floors. I no longer care that I drive a 2000 Toyota Sienna mini-van that needs bodywork and smells like wet dog. I no longer care that I have a radically altered body. Why? It took me 50 years, but I have finally realized what matters in life. Here's what matters: