I am a compulsive list maker. It started a long time ago on three-hole punched, lined, loose leaf paper. I wrote down “things to do,” and other good stuff like, “remember to get” and “go today.”
Of course, during the first decade I added my goals: stop wiggling in my seat in school so the nuns would stop wacking me with a ruler, remember to tell the man in the Chinese laundry not to put starch in my father’s shirts, and become famous when I grow up.
In in my second decade I added the element of determination to my lists. I was determined: to survive high school, adolescent angst, answer the question, what the hell am I going to do with my life after graduation, and become famous when I grow up.
Starting with the second, third and fourth decades the lists became longer and more complicated, but the goals were simple: raise the children, learn to survive, and enjoy all the lovely perks of living in the big-bad-city on my own with no clue of what the hell I’ll be if I ever grow up.
I refuse to go any further than the fifth decade. It is in the fifth decade: a woman loses the barometer of her femininity no matter how many times she makes a list. She faces the reality of sex not being readily available every night, week or month. She might lose some hair, gain some weight and add a new list … the one she brings to her semi-annual check up.
She worries if her children and grandchildren will ever: learn to be happy as they are and not as they think they should be, and what will they be when they grow up?
Progress to date. The grandchildren are doing a better job of growing up, I can’t remember where I put the damn list for the supermarket and the next time I have a check-up I need to ask about a knee replacement.
fOIS In The City
Making a list here.