Diani Detour

You know, I've been feeling so weird lately, my expectation of any imminent joy has dwindled dramatically.

This doesn't mean I've been walking around with a vial of arsenic in my purse or anything. Actually, I guess I've just been kinda bummed that for the rest of my life, my birthday month of October will always dredge up memories of death and dying.

Not that I've ever had a lot of stock invested in formal celebrations of my birthday. Being born to Jehovah's Witness parents pretty much screws that pursuit up real bad. Back in Cairo, I was the kid who sat in the hallway when the other kids had classroom birthday parties. Actually, it worked out pretty well in hindsight, because I was too poor to pitch in for cake or buy any presents for other kids anyway. Religious convictions were the perfect cover for harsh poverty.

My very first birthday party happened when I was 19, in a dorm room at Northwestern. I can still see the look of abject horror mixed with bottomless pity on my best friend Faith's face when I told her I'd never had one. She organized a really nice party, and I remember feeling really special, yet somehow still slightly wary. I don't know if I expected a bolt of lightning to singe my newly-pagan ass, but I got over it eventually.

Almost 30 years later I guess I'm just experiencing an overall "Autumn Blues" scenario. After all, I'm entering the Autumn of my life, and the requisite, "What-Do-I-Have-To-Show-For-It-Except-A-Pretty-Impressive-Passport" thing that's starting to kick in these days.

This is definitely different from my generic, ever-present menopausal angst. That's more focused on how in hell you can completely lose all control over your internal thermostat and your moods without being convicted of Capital Murder. But if you're lucky, the aforementioned Passport Pity Party is more about how you can find yourself whining about what you don't have when you've been blessed with such an amazing, interesting life.

In the past five years alone, I've traveled to 6 African countries, and actually lived in two of them. I've been to Iceland, for God's sake...I've toured Relais and Chateaux properties across southeastern France, watched lithe young men do capoeira in Salvador da Bahia, strolled the beach in Puerto Vallarta, gone on Safari in South Africa, viewed the spectacular Fontana di Trevi in Rome at nightfall....I'm forgetting half the amazing travel I've done in my life.

Just last week, I took a long walk on breathtaking Diani Beach, on Kenya's south coast. Dipping my toes into the Indian Ocean, I couldn't help marvelling over how blessed I am to see the places I've seen, meet the people I've met, and learn the things I've learned.

But all that great good fortune went swirling down the drain today, when a young woman in the newsroom viewed me with another stare mixed with abject horror and bottomless pity. I've always thought this particular editor was only about 21 or 22 because she looks so young. But she's in her early 30's and married with two adorable little boys she's cradling joyfully on her beautiful new screensaver. This afternoon, she asked me how many kids I have.

In the U.S., the answer "none" doesn't automatically elicit glassy-eyed shock. And it came without her knowing how old I actually am, because I suspect she thinks I'm still in my 30's. But her reaction told me that she can't begin to understand how a woman could get to be my age and not have any kids. I know a lot of that is just the difference between African culture and American....although now that I think about it, plenty of folks in the U.S. have wondered the same thing about me.

So, how do I move forward? I'm not sure. I thought I was fine with the status quo, but lately I'm feeling completely out of sorts. But one thing has helped. I just made the picture at the top of this posting my new screensaver. Maybe it'll help remind me to keep my life in perspective.