Every year on my birthday, I read my annual “Today’s Birthday” horoscope message. It predicts how the next year will be. I don’t know that it’s ever been that accurate, but I still do it every year. This year, I found some site that told me about who I am because of my July 17th birth date. Apparently, I should embrace individuality, social skills, and a happy disposition and avoid procrastination, judging others, and self-righteousness. I think I’m okay on the embracing part, but the things to avoid? Now I find this? A cruel, cruel joke. I think I’ll just put off thinking about all that. Oh, must go anyway, there’s someone to judge.
My last experience with a writing class was a bust. I hated the authors that the professor held up as the bar and in the second class, the prof told us that success in writing was “all bullshit”. He meant that writing is one thing, but being successful entirely another dependent upon someone else’s workload and mood. I get that. I didn’t need some guy who also used the F-word like I used to eat M&Ms to tell me that. I went back, but just once. (Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of the properly placed F-word, but its ability to make a person appear different or bohemian has long passed.)
But I still love the feeling I get when I read about writing classes. Ami McKay, who wrote The Birth House, a good book full of detail I recently read, passed along something called The Ellie Poem. Supposedly, writing teachers use it as an exercise in class a lot. It is an inventory of self. I thought it was a neat thing and did one for myself. I am posting it here because it’s my birthday. So there. Me, me, me. Hopefully, I’ll get to do another one in 2028 and see if my inventory has moved.
How does it feel to be my age? This week, I've found myself humming the tune in the Activia commercials. And I seem to be the only one who actually drives the worker-zone speed limit. In the far right lane. Like the old woman I am.