I can already tell.
This Blog is going to be every cake I didn't bake, every floor I didn't clean. Every dog I didn't walk and every book I didn't read. Every overtime I didn't work and every project I didn't start. This Blog is going to be every letter I didn’t open and every parking ticket I didn't pay on time. This Blog is going to be every lap I didn't swim and every sunny Shabbat that I didn't go out. This Blog is going to be every conversation I didn't have and every promise I didn’t keep.
This Blog is going to be that journal I promised myself I would start keeping after 5 years in Israel, after 10 years, after 15, 20 and 25 years that I didn't start. Who would have guessed that waiting this long would save me the postage needed to share my thoughts with friends and family one at a time?
I am just egotistical enough to think that maybe my writing skills are good enough, or my thoughts interesting enough, or my insights helpful enough that they will find their way through cyberspace to my friends and family and to a handful of strangers.
Perhaps there is someone who would be interested in how a 50+ year old woman has picked herself up and brushed herself off countless times and still chooses Comic Sans as her font of choice.
Perhaps someone is interested how a woman has spent more than half her life in Israel and still cannot find a parallel experience in Israel to Sunday breakfast in Philly at a diner with the whole mishpucha. And no, ten different variations of lamb and communal salads and pita on a Shabbat in a crowded Arab restaurant doesn't even come close. I don't look for the parallel Sunday diner experience out of longing for America. Because I really don't. But I do long for my extended family, for the feeling that for as much as I adore having 3 grown kids flopped over sofas watching TV on a lazy Shabbat, I still wish that I had a sofa to flop on once in a while.
Like now. Like at this moment when I am distracting myself with this new Blog instead of thinking about the guy who wants to take things slow, when I would be happy if he were sewn to me 24/7. This is one of those moments when I need a sofa to flop on.
And what about when I discover that my summer shirts from last year shrunk in the closet over winter? What should I do then? Should I cry? Should I berate myself? Or should I have some ice cream and stop beating myself up because I only walked 30 minutes instead of 45 last night?
It took long enough. But at age 50+ (specifically 51+) I finally figured out that having a Rubenesque body is sexy and that no longer being svelte will not keep me from getting a date with chiseled abs
Most of all, I have come to terms with the fact that I will never again wear horizontal stripes.
And guess what…. I don't care.