Going Down

Last night I am sitting at my table, desultorily chipping away at the mountain, when my mood takes a sudden plunge.

That's been happening lately. I'll be driving to work, or taking a shower, or otherwise engaged in some routine activity, when suddenly blooey! It's as though the bottom unexpectedly fell out of the chair.

Just about then, T. calls and I know it's not a good time to engage in conversation, but maybe I hope a little chat will cheer me up. Within minutes, I'm picking a fight, then sobbing.

And I haven't been drinking, either.

Godfrey, is this menopause? I have no way of knowing where I'm at since my hysterectomy. I don't have hot flashes, that's for sure: I'm always cold these days.

I think all the little dramas at work (both places) have just depleted my serotonin levels. Plus I'm eating a lot of crap, and hardly getting any exercise beyond the five minute sprints between classes.

"All I want is someone to take care of me!" I bellow. It's true, that's always been my fantasy, although it would seem I have done everything possible to make sure that never happened.

"We all want that sometimes," T. says.

And later, learning he may not be able to come up this weekend, I claim, "All I do is accommodate your schedule!" This is entirely unfair, since he is almost always the one who makes the trip to see me.

"I know I'm just a beast tonight," I admit. "None of this is about you: it's just I'm so unhappy with my life. I never seem to have fun."

"We have fun together," T. points out in his mild way.

It's true: T.'s the only part of my life that's really fun.

Anyway, my angst is not about my lack of fun. I'm not such a child. It's about my lack of achievement and engagement in my work. You see, I always thought, deep down, that someday I was gonna be somebody, not necessarily on a grand scale, mind, but that I would -- at least at this advanced age -- be recognized as having made some kind of contribution. (Although my recent campus-wide e-mails gave me a sense of mild celebrity at this afternoon's union meeting.)

Here I am, nearly 53, and I still haven't made up my mind what I want to be when I grow up.

"Ah, everybody feels that way," T. reassures me. "It's going to be all right, you'll see."