Slow roll through middle age

the putter and the meander

Last week I was in Colorado visiting with friends. The trip to Denver to catch my flight home involved the same harried driving I’ve seen everywhere near large cities: that tunnel outside of Seattle, I-30 through Dallas, the 395 bypass around DC. Enormous semis barrel down impossibly narrow lanes while zippy sports cars thread the traffic, leaving razor-thin spaces between bumpers. Most of my life I’ve been a proud master of this kind of driving, with my kids even calling it “Washington driving” after I explained a college job where I navigated a 15-passenger van around the streets of our nation’s capital like it was a competition.¹

But last weekend’s swerving journey through the canyons of the Rockies and the subsequent spit-out onto the plains toward the airport had me squeezing my eyes shut and white-knuckling the door handle. My friend’s driving is not to blame! She drove the way I used to, confident and unconcerned, able to carry on a conversation without the “shit shit shit” punctuation I could hear between my ears. I have become a fraidy cat, someone who doesn’t mind taking my time and who does mind these wild west-style stretches of pavement and shiny guard rails, of engines and metal.

Sunset from 10,000’ over I-90 in Missoula.

It’s one reason why people from other places are so noticeable in and around Missoula: they drive in that impatient, aggressive way they’re used to doing back in Texas, or wherever.² It’s not entirely their fault; I just wish they would figure this new, slower, life out a little sooner.

Reflecting on the changes in my tolerance for frenzied driving has brought me to a realization about myself: I have become less interested not only in that kind of road experience, but also in that kind of quick, must-do life. I used to be an impatient, impulsive person – and there are certainly vestiges of that self in much of what I do. Early morning July 4th, for example, I decided to redo my upstairs bathroom, and by nightfall I had directly purchased or ordered everything needed for that project. But I didn’t start taping or painting. In fact all the supplies are still downstairs so I can ponder, thoughtfully, how to proceed. This “slow life” appeals to me, even if I have to remind myself to choose it.

Also, I’m a pretty quiet person. I like music but often forget to use the speakers I bought myself. I don’t have a TV or any streaming services – watching television makes me feel like I’ve consumed too many potato chips, so that noise doesn’t invade my home either. If I didn’t live in a townhouse near an interstate, I might never hear anything besides the birds, an occasional car, and my own voice as I talk to my cat and my plants.³ I like that idea.

Gracie living HBL, the way all of us should do.

How many people embrace a slower, quieter life, one that includes rest and is not defined by hurry? The meandering driving. The garden puttering. The evenings with a book. Voluntary naps, not naps in service of chasing down a second wind. A balance between enjoyable work, and wandering around the community garden admiring people’s poppies.

AHP recently published a fantastic newsletter on this topic called “Bed Rotting and Loud Quitting.” Strong recommendation on the whole piece. About a certain generation of people and their attitude toward working, she notes with a level of admiration⁴: “They don’t see the capacity to work hard as indicative of moral fortitude.” Oh friends, if I could explain the thing I’ve lived my entire life by, it’s this line right here. Call it Calvinism, call it growing up with hard-nosed women who did it all, but Working Hard, A Lot has been ever my guiding principle, the one thing I could take pride in. But now, I am tired.

AHP ends the piece with this line, which whacked me across the face (softly, like a fleecy bag of warmed rice):

The world thinks rest, recovery, and general refusal of work is gross. You can — and should — do it anyway.

I’ve had to learn how to rest. It doesn’t come easy, but I’m getting there. I wonder, are most people I know naturally able to relax, or do they learn it over time? Is it an age-related revelation, location-focused, friend-influenced? A product of children growing up and away? Probably all of that, at least in my case. When I sip my coffee in the mornings on a frayed blue deck chair, reach down to pull up some chickweed that’s choking a pansy, consider a sparrow my cat is stalking,⁵ I find I’m quite content with this slower roll through my middle age.

1. I only scraped one rearview mirror on a brick wall in a too-skinny alleyway!

2. Over my lunch hour after drafting this, I took a little errand out of town and marveled at the car riding directly up onto me despite the sharp curves and my adherence to just-at-speed-limit. After I moved over I saw them: Texas plates.

3. the most revealing sentence in this whole essay just happened. Yes, I talk to my plants. They like it!

4. or maybe I’m the one admiring it

5. Don’t worry, she never catches them.