Just keep dancing

 Okay.  I was dancing my ass off last night to the somewhat pop-y but oh what great percussion Sheppard, and this is the thought that came to me:

I don't know how to relate to my age.  I know the numbers.  I know with certainty that I have more yesterdays than tomorrows.  Somewhere in my brain, the place where I keep things like remembering that something happened in 1016 - or was it 1042?  1066? - that something happened of significance, like the signing of the Magna Carta or something, which was important because it established public laws or democracy or something - back in that deserted attic part of my brain, I know I'm going to die, that everyone who hasn't already will.  I know that.  I'm not stupid.  (Just, apparently, uneducated or - let's go with forgetful.)

But you don't understand.  I'm not old.  I'm 37.  I'm young and athletic and hopeful, full of vigor and emotions and dreams.  I'm not young the way I was in my 20's.  That insecure, colorful, strong, love-hungry girl is pretty much gone, laid to rest by the ministrations of my darling Sweet Hubby.  I'm the version of me who has learned some lessons, suffered some, has started coming into herself, is deciding who she wants to be separate from who others expect her to be.  She is there, here.  I am she.  But I also now have decades more wisdom and stories and lessons learned than either one of those younger selves.

I'm not ready to be old, even though by most people's reckoning I already am.  My body reminds me of that with annoying regularity.   But I don't feel old in my spirit, in my soul, and I'm nowhere near ready to die.  There are things I still want to do, of course.  I want to see more of the world and finish writing more plays.  But mostly I'm not ready because I love it all so much, and there are the people, all the wonderful people who make my life so rich and interesting and who own so much of my heart.  I'm not ready to leave my friends and what's left of my family.  I want to spend more time getting to know the younger generation.  And I can't stand the idea of leaving S.H. alone.  (Also, I'm not completely confident I'll survive his death). 

All of this came to me right in the middle of the bouncily thrilling "Geronimo", came to me so strongly that I trembled and wept.  But there was nothing to do about it, so I kept dancing.  Maybe that's all there ever is to do - just keep dancing.