I’m not one who’s ever obsessed over age. It really has just been a number to me. Growing up and into my 20s, I spent a lot of time with my mother’s friends, who never treated me like a kid; and, as a result, I always felt like they were my friends, too.
In my youth I was attracted to older men and a lot of the guys I dated were at least 10 years older than I was. One was actually not much younger than my mother, yes, scandalous I know.
My posts have been kind of philosophical lately. It wasn’t my intention. At least not consciously. But it is the way they’ve turned out. I speak from my heart, so obviously, it’s how I’m feeling. And clearly, it’s something I want to share. Or need to share.
It’s like I’m taking a moment, to take stock. Of who and what I am. Maybe even checking in, if you will, to see if I should be recalibrating. Or even if I just want to. It’s something I do, from time to time. Most of the time I’m not even aware I’m doing it, until the obvious jumps out at me. Or I have a big AHA moment, or something.
Today, what’s struck me is how much I have to be grateful for. This could be top of mind right now because of a movie I saw Saturday afternoon. A documentary about a musician, with enormous talent, who was never recognized in America. But unbeknownst to him, he was a mega hit in South Africa. Imagine never knowing such a thing. Imagine never receiving a dime of the royalties he was entitled to.
I don’t want to give it all away because I am going to blog about this film. So suffice to say, it could certainly