A Woman Over 40
by CLS Sandoval
I am unsure where I acquired my purpose or started to believe that I am my own God. I’m shocked when actors have no acceptance speech prepared for the Oscar they receive, since I have had mine on a Post It in my pocket for decades even though I’m too lazy to submit the remote audition that was requested three days ago. I’ve been so busy retreating into my imagination, rewriting the past, making plans for the future, that my present is just full of binging reruns of Law and Order.
The petals of the rosebud had just begun to blush before hands picked and pulled it. To relieve the pain she opened ever so slightly more. She wasn’t ready for the sun, the fingers stripped between burrowing toward her center too far from her thorns for them to defend her at all. She sent her thoughts to her roots safe beneath the soil. She let her petals open before they were designed to do so.
Sometimes I do the dishes because they need to be done. Sometimes I do the dishes because I need clarity and order to think clearly. Sometimes I do the dishes because I’m compelled to do so. I am shown more and more each day how little control I have over anything. But when I turn on the water, dampen the sponge, squeeze the soap, and use enough elbow grease, those dishes end up clean. It’s pretty much the same with the laundry.
It’s snowing and I’m busy externalizing an internal monologue again — blabbering on about exactly what I would change in my past — if only I could go back to that particular moment when I went down the wrong path — apathy — apology –
But there is no snow falling from the sky — I remember when dandruff was a real problem for me — particularly since I enjoyed wearing black so much — well, I’m not sure if I ever enjoyed anything really — there wasn’t ever any joy — I never had beautiful handwriting like my Nana — I was bound to be a doctor — but I’m not that kind.
Regret has taken the place of dreams. The closest thing I have to dreams now are to do lists. I never got what I planned; what I thought possible — no white picket fence — just an iron fence — but only metaphysically — just an automatic defense
I have fooled myself in believing that a warm bath, a hot cup of tea or coffee, an episode or two of some iteration of a show produced by Dick Wolf will provide the kind of rest I need for real clarity
At 40, women become invisible she told me. I couldn’t understand until I was 40. I am only someone’s wife, someone’s mom, someone’s professor, someone’s daughter, I won’t be my own person again until I can be done enough, pretty enough to look under 40 — that may never be again. Anything I know is no longer impressive. I haven’t ever bought a house — and I have more debt than ever — I don’t even like to read.
It’s been over for a long time but I languish because I’m trapped — or because the lie of hope beckons to me at just the right time. Often in the form of a ballpoint and a blank steno pad.
