Really, not really

Home, not really. South Bay, not really. Schedule, not really. Ambition, not really. Stress, not really. Anger, frustration, blame, regrets, not really. 

I’m here, sitting on a camp chair overlooking the blustery sea in my sister and cousin’s unfinished Palos Verdes Estates home, a place I might very well hang my hat when not traveling, but for now, keeping it light and loose and ready for the next adventure.

The calendar’s already almost booked. I have a few gap weeks here and there to catch up, take a breath, re-group, re-kindle, plant my feet, do the laundry, hug my dear ones, get a tan, read a book, do my taxes—write. I’m going to be a busy lady through July and am presently securing plans for August and the great open road come Fall. 

At the end of the month I’m flying back to NYC to surprise Millie on her 4^th birthday, then when I get back we’re going to Kauai for a week. In April, I’m headed to the Central Coast for a couple of weeks, then I’ll be back to take my Star Wars-mad grandson to Disneyland’s May the 4^th Be With You celebration. Later in the month I’ll fly to Orlando to spend time with my brother and sister-in-law and hang out at Disney World for a bunch of days. June is filled with camping with the grandsons, our yearly week in Mammoth, then back to New York and we’ll jump on a plane and head to Oklahoma for a five-day Fourth of July family reunion. All my grandchildren, myself, and daughter will fly to NY for 2.5 weeks and return to L.A. at the end of July in time to celebrate my son’s birthday. 

I’ll most likely hang out in the South Bay until the boys go to school, then I’ll likely start my Big Fall trip toward the end of August. I’m thinking Canada, British Columbia, then veering East to see the Fall colors. None of that is set in stone, but it sounds like a real adventure. I had such an amazing solo journey last year traveling along the Pacific Coast and the Southwest, I might even replicate that. 

In November, I’ll fly back to New York and cheer on my daughter as she runs the NYC Marathon, then possibly stay to celebrate my two grandsons’ birthdays. 

Crazy. A whole year loosely planned, with plenty of space for adjustments. 

I’m kind of that girl: a planner; I like my clothes organized, my van clean and in order, and my year blocked out.

Since I retired three years ago come June and sold my home of almost 30 years two years ago, my life has been somewhat scattered. I’ve lived a little here and there. I’m a guest wherever I go. It’s good. It’s what I signed up for. But only now am I getting the hang of it. 

Last week, my big news was the big edit: I halfed my storage unit and shaved about $200 a month in fees. I moved what remains of my household belongs, memories, books, kids toys, two pieces of furniture—a grandfather’s clock from my parents and the hope chest my mom gifted me—by myself, with exception of the furniture two Luggers helped me with. It was an overwhelming task, both physically and emotionally. But now that it’s done, it feels like I can stand up straighter. It lighted a burden.

Junk. I intend to go back to the new unit and take out a box a week and determine if I need to keep it or chuck it. I have a huge box filled with my writing spanning back to when I was in the third grade. I have another box containing my art journals. I still have two boxes of high school memories, and another huge box filled with newspaper and magazine stories I wrote when I was a journalist. I almost tossed them on the most recent move, but then I saw the old clips from when I interviewed Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys and I couldn’t part with the yellowed words quite yet. 

I haven’t looked at most of the boxed stuff in the unit for decades, yet it is hard to dump. When I told my tax accountant about my dilemma, he said it’s vanity. My ego. I denied it. But then I realized he was right. My past life is a way I validate that I was once of value. These days, what am I? An older woman with wrinkles, a double chin, and a chubby mid-section. I was once kinda cute, filled with promise and a bright future and I have the high school yearbook to prove it. “Grandma,” my precocious grandson said when he saw a black and white photo, “what happened?”

Excellent question.

When you get older, who are you? Your past? Your present? Your future?

Do your ideas matter? 

Do you matter? 

The contents of the boxes remind me that I once had societal value.

Now, it’s hard to know. 

Looking back. Looking forward. Looking deep inside, is a truth, a reality, all of us must eventually come to terms with; we’re not that big a deal; we’re temporary. 

We don’t have to make a mark, earn a ton of money, or have a YouTube channel with a kazillion followers. Not really. Super famous people, people who’ve led incredible, impactful lives, get old and become redundant. Life moves forward, people move on, and there you are, left in the dust to ponder the point of it all. 

Which is delicious and wonderful and such an important, pulse-taking milestone. I can look back and say, “You did it. Good on you, Janet.” 

The Great Next is about clearing the deck, preparing, letting go of, and being grateful that my blood pressure is normal, I’m medicine-free and, following my annual doctor’s check up yesterday, I played pickle ball with my grandsons and LOVED IT. Yeh, the old gal still has it, as long as she has the youngins to run after the waffle balls she missed.

Life IZ Good, indeed. The skies are clear and tomorrow promises to be a stunning Southern California Winter’s day.

Home, not really, but to quote Babe’s farmer dad, it’ll do, pig, it’ll do.