I was thinking about skiing this morning. It was out of my income range as a teenager, even though I lived at the base of a popular Idaho ski mountain. Most of the kids in my high school had grown up on that mountain and spent weekends on it. I’d moved to this particular resort town mid freshman year with a struggling single mother. We didn’t do things like Ski.
Later, as a young adult, I skied. My first husband and I honeymooned at the Idaho ski resort I couldn’t afford as a kid. After our divorce a new boyfriend bought the kids and I season passes to a different Idaho resort. We would make the long arduous trek from the city to the mountain on weekends. Packing lunches and gear and a thermos of coffee.
Skiing holds absolutely no appeal anymore. That’s what I was thinking about this morning. How much of what I cared about, spent my time on, or desired has changed as I age.
I no longer want to lay on a beach or by a pool for hours. Who doesn’t want to lay on a beach? Myself and my also older now best beach buddy. It was something we loved as young women and spent countless hours doing. Now neither of us can last twenty minutes before getting hot and bored.
Discuss my relationship for hours on end. I don’t want to do that anymore either. A few years back I was out to drinks with female co-workers ranging from mid-twenties to mid-thirties. They were going on and on ad-nausea about the men they were dating or wanted to date or married to or divorcing. I wanted to bang my head on the table. The thought “oh.my.fucking.gawd I sounded just like that then” admonishing me.
Buy things. As a young woman there were so many “things” I wanted. Not anymore. That’s likely a combination of age and accumulation. There aren’t many things I coveted left for me to try at this age. I wanted a house in a nice neighborhood where all those other families lived. Got that. I wanted a pair of boots in both black and brown. Got those. I wanted to go to Belize. Been there. Three times.
I have become my mother. There is nothing to buy that makes me happy. I used to get frustrated around her birthdays and Christmas. She didn’t want any thing. Now I am her. The older I get the more I want to shed things. A smaller house, fewer clothes, less jewelry, cheaper car, fewer dishes.
To “be” someone. To be special. To be unique. To have a title that said I was s.o.m.e.b.o.d.y. That one was stubborn but it did go away. Completely. Now I’m just grateful to be what everyone else is. Human, alive, flawed, and simply part of a big universe I don’t understand. Instead of being someone I would prefer to be of service to others. In whatever small way I can.
Don’t read that last line and think I’m altruistic. I’m not. I’m just bored by things that in the long run, at the end of my life, don’t matter a lot. What I own, what my title is, who thought I was pretty. Not sure how skiing or laying on a beach factor into that. If at all. Just pondering.
And not skiing. Definitely not skiing.