I may still have one foot in my first act, and one in my second act, but I’m going to keep moving forward until I have both feet in my second act.
When a friend’s mother passed away last week, I had to accept the fact that I’m no longer fifteen listening to old tapes of “The Big Valley “at my friend’s house interrupted only by her mother softly asking what we wanted to have for lunch.
The passing of time hit me again this week. I watched a video clip from a technology conference, and I was struck by how young everybody in technology seems these days – how it was only yesterday I was the young thing, drinking martinis, wearing black, and conquering San Francisco, Silicon Valley, and the Pacific Northwest. And then I realized I was starting to sound like everybody who had come before me. Like those who come after me, I was too busy enjoying my youth to acknowledge that my day was then, would eventually pass, and others would take my place. And that not having kids would not really prevent me from becoming my mother.
But that’s okay. It also made me realize that so much of my longing to move back to the west coast may have been a longing for the past. And that my future may be back east – back to Florida – where you’re allowed to grow older and where the pace is a little slower for those longing to slow down just enough to admire a sunset with your soul mate – and let the rest of the world race through life at such a frenzied pace.
And maybe I’m glad I no longer have to set the alarm clock to awaken at six o’clock, or race to the BART station to travel to San Francisco to start work in the historic Flood Building at the intersection of Powell and Market where the cable cars turn around and head back to the Wharf. Or grab a hasty cup of Peet’s Coffee, hoping it’ll prop my eyes open and hold me over until lunch when I’ll grab a fried chicken breast prepared in Chinatown but sold at Woolworth’s, also located in the Flood Building at street level. Or attempt to avoid the kooks predicting the whole world is going to hell in a hand basket, or the opportunists dressed in three piece suits whispering obscenities in my ear while I watch tourists board a cable car, choke down my lunch, and head back to the office. And after working all day, I won’t then have to hike up and down the hilly streets of San Francisco all the way to North Beach in my heels, where I will meet up with others while I fend off men on the prowl in the bar at the Rusty Scupper, all to repeat again the next day.
