My Icons Are Dying And It Sucks

All I did was open up my news app on my phone.  A simple task, one I do several times a day, to read about the latest stupid thing our future president had done and to make sure we're not at war with anyone.  This time, however, the headline was about Carrie Fisher, Princess Leia, dying. She was only sixty, fer cryin' out loud--nine years older than me. 

I cried.

I saw Star Wars in the theater when it was first released.  I loved Princess Leia. Loved her.  Here was a woman who was supposed to be the princess in the fairy tale, imprisoned by an evil creature.  But she wasn't a helpless damsel in distress, waiting to be rescued. Instead, Princess Leia made a snarky comment about Luke being too short for a storm trooper. She snarled insults at Han Solo, rolled her eyes at Chewbacca, grabbed a blaster, and started firing. That certainly got my attention as a teenager.  Here was a woman who had no trouble speaking up for herself, at a time when women were fighting for the same thing.  Princess Leia had no problem with fighting for what she believed in, despite her expected upbringing as a stereotypical pampered and delicate member of royalty.  Here was a female character who didn't have any of the special help her brother Luke had in the form of Obi-Wan, Yoda, and The Force. Yet Leia still managed to outsmart the bad guys and get the Death Star plans to the Rebels.  Down to earth, practical, and smart, Princess Leia was a problem solver, and a great leader.

And Carrie Fisher the real life person didn't hold her punches either.  She was an excellent actress and a talented writer, penning several books over the years.  She was a great advocate for the mentally ill, giving them a voice at a time when depression, anxiety, and bipolar disorder were words hidden away from the public eye.  I never met Ms. Fisher, but you just knew that if you did happen to run into her, she would be kind.  She would be gracious, unless you brought up that stupid metal bikini.  Which was a pretty silly outfit for a sandy planet, honestly.  I could completely understand why Fisher wouldn't want to talk about that. 

Carrie Fisher was an icon.  She represented a woman who had to fight her own battles, against stereotyping, against misogyny, and especially against her own demons of mental illness. She truly did things her way, and I admire that. I wanted to be that. I admired Princess Leia for her gumption, and I admired Carrie Fisher for the very same thing.  She will be missed.  I'd like to think of her spirit becoming one with the Force that watches over us all, but I'm still going to be sad about it.


I seem to be getting to the age where all of the actors, musicians, and authors I grew up with are all dying.  I understand that people die, but it just seems there's been so many of them in 2016.  David Bowie. Alan Rickman. John Glenn. Prince. Harper Lee. Gene Wilder. George Michael. Muhammad Ali. Merle Haggard. People I never met, but who touched my heart, fired my imagination, and set my mind free, if only for a little while.  As long as they were around, I still had some happy pieces of my youth to return to.  Every time I watched Young Frankenstein, with Gene Wilder, was joyful. Merle Haggard's Silver Wings took me back to my college years, two stepping around a dance floor.  Those memories, once shiny, will now be tinged with sadness.  I know that's the way of the world, but I don't have to like it.  It's like that poem--I rage, at the dying of the light, not just for myself, but for the world.  It sucks to see so many lights flickering out; the world seems diminished by their passing.  

Used to Could

Getting old sucks sometimes.

There's all that great stuff about the wisdom that comes with age.  That part is pretty great. I don't feel as much "have to" as I did when I was younger, for example.  I don't "have to" have tons of money or things; as long as I have a roof over my head and food on the table.  I don't "have to" be a size zero(yes, there is such a thing!); these days I am just focusing on my health.  I don't "have to" pretend to be someone I'm not just so people will like me; I no longer feel a need to pretend to be someone I'm not just to fit in with a particular group. 

But other parts of getting old are difficult for me to accept.   Like the hair suddenly in weird places.  I have found several of the prerequisite old lady hairs on my chin, and now I'm a little paranoid about it.  Where else will hairs appear?   And everything creaks when you hit a certain age.  Knees creak.  Backs creak.  Necks creak.  Even fingers creak, which is sort of creepy if you're not expecting it.  And I'm always just...tired.  Not the bone-deep tired of someone ill, just the nagging tired that comes with the body beginning that downhill slide into old age. The tired that comes from having too many things to do and not enough hours in the day to get them done. The tired that has you in bed before 10pm each night, even as you curse having to be awake at 6am. 

There's a phrase that you hear around here that describes all this perfectly, as much as it offends the Grammar Police out there: Used to could.  I am not sure if the phrase is a vestige of the Old South that spread into Central Texas, or if it is a bastardized translation of one of the many languages, German, French, or Spanish, that are prominent in the area.  It really doesn't matter; the phrase fits perfectly. 

I (used to) could run a mile.  I (used to) could walk up and down stairs all day, without losing my breath or needing an inhaler. I (used to) could carry heavy things up the stairs by myself. I (used to) could eat lots of things and not gain an ounce. I (used to) could drink many beers and still dance upright.  I (used to) could dance most of the night, just because I wanted to.  I (used to) could leap into a mosh pit and not worry about getting stepped on.  I (used to) could stay awake all night if I was having a good time. I (used to) could never worry about most things, believing that all would be well.

Time for an attitude adjustment.  Again.

The secret is to focus on the here and now, to be in the present, and be happy in that.  Having a six year old boy tends to sharpen a mother's focus on the now.  Most of the time I think that I do pretty good with keeping up with my son. We do lots of exploring, for example, which means lots of walking, some climbing, and the occasional quick jog.  I love those times. 

But then something in my body creaks, or I need my inhaler, and then I start to think about all the things I (used to) could.  I (used to) could ignore them.  Now they just creep into my consciousness along with that nagging pain in my lower back. They're hard to dismiss, difficult to push into the back of my brain, and once they gain traction, they tend to stick around. 

Getting old sucks sometimes.