Scattered thoughts from an Overused 40+ Year-Old Mind

In June I will be 42 freakin' years old. I'm okay with the number. My life at 42 is no one else's but my own. Not dependent on anyone and I handle my own shit. Can every 42 year old say that?

I have 2 kids and 2 dogs and 2 bikes, a house, a car, and a yard of my own. I'm a single parent. If the grass grows, I mow it. Well, sometimes I pay the teenager across the street when he wants to make a quick 20. When the house needs cleaned, I clean it. Ok, I make my kids do some of it, but they aren't that great at it. When I'm having a bad day I wallow in it. Alright, I call a meeting of my BFFs and we meet for margaritas or wine. Its better than therapy.

Clearly I am an independent woman, but am not shy about asking for help.

I have a phone with a calendar on it which Google links to a calendar on my laptop or any computer I'm near. I love calendars. I have things scheduled already out to August at this point. I like to know waaaay ahead when something's coming so I can stick in my calendar. It gives me peace of mind to add an appointment. Then I know I have a chance of not forgetting it. I thrive on checking today's date and making sure I've got my ducks in a row for the day. Wow, that sounds a bit sick.

I make lists. On envelopes or post-its or scrap paper. Bills to pay, things to buy, places to be, people to call. Every week a new list. I add the status on my 401K and my mortgage balance and my weight. I throw everything on there. It soothes me. Out of my head and on to paper. Then I really get jazzed when I can cross off stuff...or maybe check it, whatever my mood demands.

I try to stay active and by doing that, I schedule every single minute down to the second with "stuff". Why? When do I rest? 42 ain't no spring chicken! Metabolism is slowing, brain function is getting muddled, skin is drooping, hair is graying. But I'm told I don't look 40+. No matter I'm told that by 75+ year olds, hey, I'll take it anyway. Because my 42 year old brain can't click as quickly as it once did, my calendar alerts keep me from forgetting something important and let someone down. I'm a pleaser and a perfectionist. Not always a good combo. I am not the most organized person either. It looks unorganized to the untrained eye, but my mess is mine and I know where everything is. Or at least what pile its in. Here is a picture of my actual workspace at work...sticky-notes, piles and all:

I know it looks like a scene from the movie A Beautiful Mind but I know where any manufacturer rep's phone number or insurance account number are hanging in the mess. It would make sense to put those stickies on one single computer-typed page. I look at my mess and am sometimes disgusted. I'm sure my office isn't professional-looking. I don't do well with change so in the 12 years I've hibernated in this office daily, this is what I get. The mess isn't going anywhere. It is all I can do to get from one day to the next without forgetting to put on a shirt each morning, so if I'm arriving at work fully dressed, getting my kids and the dogs fed, and moving my ass enough that I don't weigh 200 lbs, I figure I'm doing alright.