Tempest in a Purple Teapot

It rained quite a lot today. I’m inside the house on the computer stuck inside of my head. I’m in there tossing stuff around, trying to find that novel that I always thought I had inside of me… where did I put it? And, if I actually do find it, how do I get it out?

Okay, lest you think I’m your typical self-medicating Islander, I will quickly tell you that I am on the fast-track towards 60 and I’m only now coming to terms with the opportunity that I have, metaphorically, to wear purple. (Please don’t get me going on how the “red-hat-women” have absolutely ruined any dreams I had of enjoying an earned truly gawdy eccentricity in old age– what?– they couldn’t have chosen some other form of group expression, like tole-painting murals?)

I’m a Granny. I haven’t decided if I want to be called Granny, Gran, Grandma or Lola (quite an attractive option…Lllllola….Llllola, etc… actually the “Grandmother” alternative for my Fil-Can granddaughters). Alyza is 2 and can put together 3-word sentences now. Over the phone from the Philippines she said, “I love you”, no doubt coached by her Daddy, and really, unaware of who she was wasting the three words on. When she comes home in June we’ll see if she has decided what I am to be called. Her other granny is called “Ninay” so I won’t likely be called that.

So, I am at this crossroads of sorts. Do I settle in to being a typical Vancouver Island Granny (at least one who comes from the Prairies) with a beautiful yard and home? Do I take up watercolors and the flute? Kayaking? Advanced Raw Vegan Yoga Therapy? (yes, I’m living near Courtenay)

Or is that all just too typical of today’s Boomer Granny? What does one have to do to stand out in the crowd? Or, as a grandmother am I expected just to gently fade, along with my hair and skin-tone, into the background of my own life?

It’s an interesting place to be and I do know that I am in a very privileged position… healthy, financially-okay, fairly sane, with a good man I snapped up in 1970 and a God who forever scoops me up and starts me over with Grace every time I slide out on first. As I re-read this I am reminded of a Communications class I once took (the only Communications class I ever took) at SFU back in the seventies. The Prof ascribed himself the role of wise sage and had us journal to him, saluting him with “Dear Grandpappy”… I suppose he thought he was being ever so dear and home-spun, but I had two living Grandfathers at the time and I could not imagine calling them anything like “Grandpappy”… it didn’t really summon up much other than a Flatt-and-Scruggs-Tennessee-bluegrass-type of old gent and I wasn’t sure if that was what he was aiming for. I honestly didn’t care enough to pursue him with questions about his identity. And, my dears, I suppose I’m in a similar position now myself– who really cares whether I am going through this little Granny-ID-crisis thing over here in VanIsleHeaven?

(Cynthia normally blogs at http://healthiacynthia.com but is experiencing some technical glitches re her wordpress password and username right now and needs to be rescued by her son who has moved back east and isn’t always accessible by email or phone… oh woe is me. And, before I forget, if you’re on Facebook and you happen to use pure, therapeutic grade essential oils, come on over and join my group called Pure Therapeutic-Grade Essential Oils and People Who Use Them. Post and you are eligible for a draw to win the same.)