This weekend I tried to imagine myself as a character in a novel.
WARNING: Unless you have an over-inflated or, at a minimum, a very healthy sense of self, don’t try this exercise at home. Why? Watch and learn. As my sister-in-law pointed out, we are now middle-aged. (Thanks, M.) I don’t mind my age, it is just the term middle-aged that weighs me down maybe because it reminds me of bleak descriptions from sixth grade history class of the time period bearing a remarkably similar name. That’s where my character sketch started, and it went something like this: White, middle aged woman, breadwinner, mother and wife. Dressed in sensible, though expensive, shoes and sensible clothes of a more economical variety. Overweight, having not regularly exercised in 20 years, which she is quick to point out are the same number of years as she’s been married. Read whatever you’d like into that coincidence of fact. Since we compress the memories of the past, her younger years are remembered with great fondness. Adventure and travel filled, with a sense of wonder and fearlessness. Childhood teasings and awkward teenage years now only a blur. Carefully edited memories stand in stark contrast with the now endless monotony of adulthood. Past dreams of making world peace a reality discouraged daily by reading news feeds and the inertia of inaction. She remembers reading about such characters when she was younger, solemnly swearing never to go down that path herself. Oh, did your eyes start drooping? Sorry about that. It would keep going, but the author just told me that the publisher has put a hold on the project. Footnote: Maybe next weekend I'll be a more positive protagonist. FYI: It is very cathartic to write about oneself in the third person.
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