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Remind me: What Is My Motivation?

Seriously, what is my motivation? I’m pretty sure I don’t have any. Is that really possible? 
I’m trying to think about what gets me jazzed and all I can come up with is a new oversized man shirt, an eight-pack of Guinness, or a day off. Apparently I’ve turned into Homer Simpson. Unfortunately, that’s not a real stretch. I wish I could at least be Marge, her hair always looks so nice.
Nope. I’m much more like Homer. Don’t even get me started on donuts. I’m lucky I’m not standing at an exit ramp with a sign that says “Will work for chocolate frosting.” Sometimes it feels like I’m working for a lot less.
I used to get excited when a story I wrote was printed in the newspaper. Now all I can see is that stinking comma that’s out of place or the lede the editor rewrote because my original one sucked. Thirty years and I still miss the comma before and? Sometimes I do. 
This all tells me that I’ve become a woman of a “certain age,” or as Webster says: “no longer young.” The lady who wrote a book on the topic in 1979, “Women of a Certain Age: The Midlife Search for Self,” made the phrase “of a certain age” seem kind of sexy, at least in France. In some circles the phrase has a swagger to it and connotes a woman who can captivate a younger man. 
This does not necessarily apply to a woman wearing a man shirt and eating chocolate frosting out of a can while waiting for someone to clip her toenails because she can no longer reach them. The French put the best spin on everything don’t they? 
I do think motivation is a good thing. We all need something to push us forward, make us get up tomorrow and do it all over again. Otherwise we’ll be watching reruns while the national debt climbs even higher. We have to pull ourselves together and put one foot after the other, even if our toenails look like a sloth’s and it’s the last thing we feel like doing. 
Let’s congratulate us — us women of a certain age. Take that label and run with it, all the way to the nail salon or the nearest college campus, where we just might hold court among the men who are not “of a certain age.” Stupid double standard. 


Melissa Burch said…
Yes, I agree I think I've reached that certain age too... but took off, sold home in Cambridge, MA and moved to a tiny house my husband inherited on the island of Tinos, Greece... at least for the summer... heading back to Massachusetts in a week... and may join your ranks of boredom... Your piece made me laugh! Thank you!

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