A Slow Simmering Stew of Meh

What to know what I do each week? I play with my grandkids. I do online puzzles, and text my results to friends, who also text their results to me (It’s a way of checking in with each other without saying, “How you doin’?”). I play canasta, mahjong, and trivia, sometimes while drinking vodka. I go to the gym. I clean the house. I water the plants. And for a sprinkle of fun, I bitch about my weight and wrinkles and fold mountains of laundry.

That said, I enjoy the heck out of all of those things. I look forward to them. I love hanging out with my friends and grandkids, I look forward to game days, I take pleasure in playing trivia, and watching my plants grow. I truly find joy in all those things (minus the weight, wrinkles, and laundry), but lately I’ve been feeling like I have Restless Everywhere Syndrome. Life is good, but I’m unfulfilled.

I was talking to someone the other day about how I feel, and they said I’m looking for a purpose. Someone else said I’m emotionally undernourished. A third person thinks I’m subconsciously avoiding a certain emotion, like grief or fear, that I haven’t yet identified. Maybe all of those are true. I just know that I’ve been feeling “meh” and wishing I had more meaning in my life.

In Pittsburgh, before we moved to Florida, I had a brick-and-mortar jewelry store, an online jewelry store, and I worked at festivals every weekend. My days were non-stop work and activity. Creating something and having people love it enough to buy it was SO satisfying. Plus, I had an income and a little business that was mine, that I could nurture and grow. I gave all of that up after we moved to Florida, although I toyed with restarting here, but this area isn’t as artsy as Pittsburgh, and the results have been mixed.  

So I’ve been looking for my “thing” while (Ye Gods! Prepare for whining alert!) feeling a little resentful and jealous as hell that the rest of my family has found their “thing” since we all moved here. I’m happy and proud of them, but also sad—and maybe even grieving—that I gave up my passion and identity and haven’t landed on my feet the way they have. It feels a bit like being forced into retirement before you’re ready: the structure is gone, the title is gone, and everyone assumes you should be relaxing while you’re quietly wondering who you even are without the work. Lately, I’ve been living in a slow-simmering stew of bleargh. It’s a real kick in the pants I didn’t see coming.

I considered a job, but Bill wasn’t fond of the idea because he wants the freedom to vacation whenever we’d like. He’s worked for 40 years and is ready to relax more, so I get that…but still…I’m just existing, and that doesn’t feel like enough. I want to thrive. I want to do something rewarding. I want contribute! I want to jump out of bed every day and indulge in my passion! Is that too much to ask? Or is it This is it, lady! You’re looking at the rest of your life here!

I don’t actually believe that. Except sometimes I do.

Anyway, I’m currently scratching my head and wondering if this is normal at my age, or if I’m being a discontented crybaby. I’m wildly grateful for the life I’ve built here - the friends and the activities - but I don’t have a passion or focus. In my 20s, it was work; in my 30s, it was raising kids; in my 40s and half of my 50s, it was my jewelry store; and in my 60s, it's…??????????? I know there doesn’t have to be something, but I feel like I need something. Does that make sense?

While I ponder that, would you like to see pictures of my life before I moved to Florida?

This is my craft show/festival booth. We set it up at a different show every weekend from August through November. When we got really good, we could put it all up in 90 minutes and tear it down in about an hour.

Bill uses the tarp on the roof now as a drop cloth when he paints, and I’ll tell you a secret: I feel wistful and sentimental when I see it. I miss the show days.

This is what all the parts look like, partially in and out of the car. Packing it was like a puzzle.

My favorite festival was an authentic colonial festival. We had to wear authentic colonial clothes. My “authentic” colonial dress was a 1970s Gunny Sax prom dress I bought on eBay. I had a love/hate relationship with that dress. I loved that it was kind of cute in a colonial way, but damn, that thing was hot when the weather was warm, and the muddy fabric slapped around my legs when the ground was wet. I don’t know how those colonial women did it.

Bill’s authentic colonial outfit was an Amish Man’s Halloween costume from Amazon. Again, sweltering. I remember the weekend of that show being 92 degrees in September in Pennsylvania.

But the heat didn’t matter when your booth was full of people shopping and there was a line of people waiting to get in to shop!

This was my jewelry store when we were still in the fixing-it-up-before-we-opened phase. It was a tiny 100-year-old building that was a dentist’s office in the early 1900s and then a beauty shop in the 1940s to 1970s. After that, it was a bunch of other businesses until we came along.

Painting is finished! Yay!!

My most popular necklace. The flowers were made from leather scraps and strung on leather strands. I saved a bronze-colored one for myself but have never worn it.

I made hundreds of fall leaf earrings from slabs of colored clay. Sometimes, I’d be at the mall shopping and see random women wearing something I made, and it was really cool

But I gave it all up when we moved to Florida. I don’t regret moving here, but I wish I hadn’t had to relinquish so much of my identity when we did. There is so much good here, but sometimes I’m still mourning the lifestyle I had in Pittsburgh, where I felt…what’s the word I’m looking for…successful. I need something new to focus on, but I haven’t yet figured out what it should be.