Pre-Rhinebeck, Sorta
Oh my darlings, I had this long post written, full of post-cycling energy and musings on age. And then I had to run out again before I could get it posted (I have to read them and ponder for a bit before they go up), and now I am feeling like it's a bit too personal, too close-up and detailed a slice of this particular life.
It's not that I don't discuss personal matters here (hell, I talk about sex - or at least the wish for it - all the time), but some posts that don't make the cut do so (or don't so) because they're a bit too revealing in other ways. Because they tell you where I was on a certain night, or because they contain pics of the bicycles of people I know.
And then I take a step back and decide that that's unwise, and that it would be better to put up something knitting-related, especially since it's almost that biggest of weekends in East Coast Knitting.
But I can't get a good photograph of the one finished Special J mitten because I have not yet perfected the art of photographing one's own arm, and, selfishly, I am tired and don't want to try. Especially since I may be on call for some amateur messengering tomorrow.
Some friends of mine are staring a very big job in the face and I offered to help pick up some runs if they just need bodies and don't particularly need things to arrive at the ungodly pace with which they normally deliver their packages. (Lord, are they fast)
I am not fast. I am cautious. But I do have a messenger bag and several bicycles, which I enjoy riding in all sorts of weather, so I could put these items to good use if need be.
Anyway. Here's some random pic to keep you entertained while I cast on for the second mitten, because if I wait any longer, I fear we may encounter the dreaded Second Mitten Syndrome. I promise to corner Special J and make her model them for me when they're done. She has such pretty hands, anyway; they'll look much better on her.
But before I go, let me just say this. One of the interesting things about growing older is that you find (or I do) that you are no longer the "est" at much of anything. You're not the fastest, youngest, prettiest, most precocious, or any of those other superlatives.
And you have to come to terms with that. I've also been coming to terms with the fact that my "good" parts (or best parts) are not immediately visible - not just because I'm more interesting than I am nice to look at (mind you, I think I'm quite nice to look at, but I think I'm nicer to look at on the inside, if you can follow that) - but also because I don't necessarily parade my big big brain around in all circles of life.
My work is solitary, and it's not even got that much in common with my real interests, and in any case, none of my friends really know what it's about or would even have the context to appreciate it. And I'm certainly not the fastest, youngest, or cutest cyclist out on these roads, so that's right out. I don't race. I don't (most of the time) messenger. At first (or second, or twelfth) glance, I am unremarkable. And I am middle-aged.
It's weird. I don't feel old, but in a way I sort of drift among several worlds, not being completely part of them, but feeling relatively welcome in them anyway. I like the feeling welcome part. That is new for me. It's nice.
It's still odd. I wonder if I look like a conundrum to some people. A young/old, single and not-terribly-unhappy about that, childless (delighted about that), independent but not too prickly sort of woman. It's nothing really remarkable, I guess, except that it seems a little unusual to me. Or maybe that's just because I was watching Masterpiece Theater until five in the morning last night, and it would have been very unusual in that world. I would have been an "old maid," if you can believe that.
Oy. Where's that cat of mine?
PS. Actual conversation yesterday, with my favorite young redhead:
Me: "Is it wrong that I am already building up another bike in my head?"
He: "No, it's awesome!"
