Recently, the editor of a magazine mentioned that she was looking for ‘rants’. I am in one of those rare, happy states (unfortunately?) but when a big editor mentions that she is looking for something, one listens and attempts to comply, so I decided to find something to rant about and here it is. I call it: Smell This.

I am so sick of people telling me to stop and smell the roses, the coffee, or the cappuccino. Even the ones that don’t actually say, ‘now that you’re older’ are implying it. Here’s what I’d like to say to people who want me to appreciate the little things. Have you been paying attention? As The New Older Woman I am not expected to be so peaceful. I am too busy having new ideas (Perhaps I’ll take up French or adopt a small orphan from the Sudan) and ‘aha’ moments (Now I know why I hate my mother-in-law! She’s a constipated bitch!). I am too busy to even make the coffee. I grind my own flax seed, take 72 vitamins a day, I spin, (at the gym, not uncontrollably by myself) and construct dinners so complex with antioxidants and Omega 3’s that Dr. Andrew Weil calls me for recipe ides. On my next vacation I will be building dwellings for the Yanamamo tribe in South America. I will get there through a series of bungee jumps through the rain forest. So you see, you can’t have it both ways, you have to pick. Either 50 is the new 40 or the new 60; one or the other. It was bad enough juggling job, carpool, and hubby as supermom; I will not be morphing into some sort of Super Senior who gains wisdom and patience but still loses the body fat.

I’m told that some people who overcome a serious illness or pray for a miracle and receive it are changed forever. When I was trying to sell my first novel, I swore to myself and to whatever superior being happened to be on call that if I were published I would change many things: I would be a better person, I would not sneak onto the express lane with 22 items, I would explore my disturbing sympathy for people who commit road rage. Now, two novels in with a third on the way and a fabulous publisher, I have made good on none of them. Well, perhaps I am a slightly better person. But this is primarily because I get to do something I love every day and not because I have any clarity or have grown as a person. In fact, sometimes when I’m avoiding doing my work I fantasize about inviting all the really bad drivers over to my house for salad, only I wouldn’t wash the lettuce. Hey, if they can change lanes on the highway without signaling, surely I can play a little Russian Roulette with E coli. Okay, did I really say that out loud?

My point is, I have a friend who has mellowed into that blissful, Zen-like state of appreciation. She takes things day by day and lives every moment to the fullest. Uch! Who wants to go to lunch with her? She may have learned the meaning of life but I’ve learned a new word for her; b-o-r-i-n-g. She no longer gossips and what’s worse, she gives everyone the benefit of the doubt! I hate that in a person.

As an author, I get to do a lot of book clubs and reading groups, which I actually love, despite the fact that I get asked the same questions (Did you always write? Yes, of course, I came out of the womb and asked for a pen and paper and promptly wrote my mother a short note thanking her for the daily servings of Haagen-Dazs Cherry Vanilla and the quick trip down the birth canal) and sometimes blatant questions (did you practice the sex scenes before you wrote them? Um, uh, next question?). But occasionally I get asked a really stupid question. Last month someone raised their hand and asked why it doesn’t say ‘The End’ at, well, the end. Seriously, you can’t make this up. I wanted to say, “I don’t know, maybe because it’s not Jack and the Beanstalk?”
But instead, I took a few deep cleansing breaths and tried to absorb positive energy. It didn’t work. The only thing I really wanted to inhale was a nice tall glass of Merlot.
Since then I’ve decided to forego the search for inner peace and celebrate my inner, inpatient, bitch by coming up with a new word to describe my preferred state; it’s called Kvetchity; a combination of kvetchy and crotchety which is especially evident when talking to insurance companies, Dunkin Donut servers, or irrational checkout clerks who think that 22 items are so much more than 15.

Last week I was feeling especially kvetchity when an airline cancelled a flight I had booked six months ago and wanted to put me on a connection instead of a non-stop and charge me a hundred dollars for their mistake. Even worse, after 40 minutes on the phone with the agent I was disconnected. I can tell you that I tried, I really tried. I went outside and cut some lilies. I came in and put them in a jar and tried to let the fragrance and flora soothe me. I then went and made myself a nice big cup of cappuccino. Then I poured that hot coffee all over those nice, yellow lilies and I felt much better!