Truth: I am 63. In the prime of my life, right?

I think most people my age are not doing what I do almost daily which is to ponder the question, what do I want to be when I grow up?

For crying out loud, I AM grown up! I have grown-up children. I have grandchildren marching towards grown-upness. (Well, at least marching towards double-digits, which is just a hop-skip-and -jump away from teenager years which are pretty darn close to being grown-up.)

Most of my peers are pondering how to spend the retirement years. I struggle to relate.

I have a love-hate relationship with my job. I moved from part-time to full-time two years ago. The last full time job I held before that was 1984.

I took a whole bunch of years off to bake cookies and have teas, as Hilary Clinton once said. Except I didn’t have teas. I played with Lego, read aloud, changed diapers, did laundry, read aloud some more, and went for walks to the library. We went for family swims, had skunk watches (just what it sounds like — watching a skunk make a daily trek outside our sliding door), played with math manipulatives, raked leaves, painted Christmas cookies, colored Easter eggs, hid birthday presents, etc. etc. etc.

Now, at work, I struggle with having a boss. I struggle with the politics of the work-place, with the certain amount of fakeness that is expected required, and I just can’t do it.

I love planning things. I love when an idea comes to fruition. That happened with events twice this week.

I hate any sort of spotlight.

I love listening to people. I love stories. I love making people feel welcome. I now know how to say “Good morning” in at least 6 languages — which I really do use to greet people. The Russian lady, especially, always smiles and laughs when I do. Sometimes the “r” rolls in dubro utro and sometimes my tongue gets stuck. Either way, we both laugh about it.

I hate pettiness. I hate micromanaging. These aspects of my job come from on high and drive me crazy. I want to scream,”Just let me do my job!”

Sometimes I think back to my horse riding days. Some horses needed a tight rein, but most were much happier and cooperative with a little slack. I rode bareback most of time, and could feel the horse, which is kind of strange to explain to someone who has never experienced it. Horses and I got along well.

I LOVE having a counterweight to my idea-ness. I have such a person in my life right now who can see the potential in my ideas and can either point out the flaws or move them forward. Idea people need that someone else. They don’t micromanage; they work alongside.

All this is to get to the concept of Ikigai which I stumbled upon yesterday in my struggle to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I found a Venn diagram — and I love Venn diagrams — that illustrated it:

The more I read, though, about Ikigai — defined by Wikipedia as “a Japanese concept referring to something that gives a person a sense of purpose, a reason for living.” — I realized that this is one of those foreign words that doesn’t translate well. Even the Venn diagram — and I DO love Venn diagrams — sort of makes it formulaic, and it isn’t.

So — prime of life or not, I’ll still ponder what to be when I grow up. Maybe someday I’ll figure it.

But can someone just get rid of these darn micromanagers??!

This way-too-wordy post is brought to you by Linda Hill’s Stream of Conscious Saturday prompt: prime

I’m reading a book called Hoop: A Basketball Life in 95 Essays by Brian Doyle. It almost makes me want to watch a basketball game.

Almost.

I don’t think I’ve watched a basketball game since high school. When I went to Syracuse University, I got to know a few of the basketball players, but I never went to a single game.

This was back in the ’70s when they had a new young coach named Jim Boeheim. He retired after the 2022-23 season. I heard a radio announcer on the NPR station talking about the SU basketball coach retiring and she referred to him as Jim Bohemian. I laughed. I knew his name well. I thought it sad that after decades of coaching, he was still unknown to some.

But that’s true of all of us.

No matter how notable our lives, we’re equally unnotable.

And that’s okay.

Mostly, I watched games in high school as a cheerleader.

Yes, I was a cheerleader. I followed in my sister’s footsteps.

Oh, the good old days.

Not really.

My freshman year I had planned to play field hockey but I got very sick with mono and missed three weeks of school. I never tried to play another sport.

Then, I was a cheerleader, as I said. I didn’t — and still don’t — really understand football. But I know the cheers. “First and ten! Do it again!” Don’t even try to explain it to me.

Basketball made ever-so-much more sense. At least I understood the basics.

Reading Brian Doyle’s book makes me understand how much of the game I missed — such as the grace and beauty of dribbling a basketball.

The other day I was walking on the track above our basketball courts at the sports facility where I work. Below me, kids were playing basketball. They had just finished their first day of school and come to the gym. It’s a time-honored tradition in Cooperstown.

I watched one boy trying to dribble two basketballs — one with each hand — and struggling to keep them even. Before long, it looked more like playing the bongos than dribbling a basketball.

A bit later, a girl took up that same challenge, same activity. She was considerably younger, shorter, and more athletic. She made it look easy. I watched her in admiration. If I hadn’t seen the boy struggling to do the same thing a few minutes before, her ease wouldn’t have stood out to me.

But it did.

I hoped the boy would stick with it — practicing, practicing, practicing.

I thought this morning, as I was reading another Brian Doyle essay on basketball, that I should write a book about swimming.

About the grace and beauty of it.

About the heartbreaks and the victories, the old pools and dank locker rooms, the shiny pools and pristine locker rooms. About parent timers who forget to stop the stopwatch because they’re so intent on watching their child. About the officials who have fallen in the pool during a meet, or had a coach in their face about a disqualification.

Mostly, though, about the Zen reality of swimming laps – swimming down, pushing off the wall, swimming back, over and over and over. Because if that doesn’t mimic life, I don’t know what does.

At least, it mimics life for me.

This stream-of-consciousness blather is brought to you by Linda Hill’s Stream of Conscious Saturday, where the prompt for today was mostly/at least.

The other day a conversation I was in touched on the phrase “Choose Joy.”

“It’s all in how it’s said,” the other person was saying, and it hit me how very correct he was.

Say it with heartfelt sincerity and it sounds like what it’s intended to be — an encouraging sentiment. Say it sarcastically, sardonically, with a touch of a sneer and it is exactly the opposite. However a person has heard in the past probably impacts how they hear it today, right?

Every trite little slogan has that potential.

When life is an utter sh-thole, the last thing someone needs to hear is “Choose Joy” — as if they had chosen the fecal matter surrounding them. Sometimes, our choices do lead us to the latrine — but sometimes a thousand things outside our control take us there.

Timing is everything.

When I wake up in the morning, I can tell myself to choose joy today. When I drop a cinderblock on my foot, I may not choose joy in that moment.

But, then, I do have a sign boldly proclaiming “HOPE” on the side of our barn. Does”HOPE” also fall somewhere on the sarcasm/sincerity continuum? Can it be said both ways? I sure hope so? not?

Hope somehow feels different to me.

Yesterday, I lifeguarded at a local park. All the young lifeguards are back to school or at soccer practice or some such. I’m glad I can help.

An old woman came down to the beach. I would guess that she was in her late 70s, maybe early 80s. She was unsteady entering the water from the beach. I watched her pick her way along, hoping she had water shoes on because the zebra mussels can hurt terribly when stepped on.

She lifted the rope separating the shallow end from the deep end over her head and started swimming. Maybe she was a strong swimmer at some point in her life, but she wasn’t yesterday. She made me nervous, especially when she had to stop and “rest” holding onto the rope delineating the further boundaries of the deep end.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, and sounded annoyed at the question.

When she went back to shore, she lost her footing in thigh deep water. I jumped up, quite sure I would need to go in to assist her, but she finally stood again on her own and walked the rest of the way. Back on the beach, she sat, exhausted, in an Adirondack chair for the next hour.

Why she came to mind as I pondered Joy and Hope stream-of-consciously is a bit of a mystery to me. I wish I understood how my mind works. Here’s my guess though:

I think she chose Joy when she chose to go swimming that day. She drove by herself — a questionable choice because she hit a bench when attempted to park. She descended steep uneven stairs to get to our narrow beach. Then she swam — even though it exhausted her and she had lost her footing in the water. She chose to do all that even though the rest of us questioned her choices.

Maybe that’s choosing Joy — choosing something for ourselves, even when it doesn’t make sense.

That line that she clung to? That was Hope. It’s not so much a choice as it is something we just hold onto when we need it.

This Blather is brought to you by Linda Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday. Today’s prompt chews/choose. Use one, use ’em both, use ’em any way you like.

I chose choose.

I also choose Hope and Joy.