For the past two-and-a-half years I’ve been a party to teaching my granddaughter the meaning of the word “no.”  I have also tried, with limited success, to teach my dog and my cat the same word.  I spend the better part of my life teaching four children the same word.  One would gauge, based on my experience, that I have a full understanding–and appreciation for–the word and that I would excel at applying it in my own life.  But, as they say, “those who can do, and those who can’t, teach.”

I am learning again the meaning of no.  No, I can’t climb that.  No, I can’t carry that.  No I can’t do all of that.  And, no, I can’t/won’t eat/drink that.  I have never been accused of being too thin.  Since young adulthood I have battled off an on with my weight–specifically how much I can eat based on how much I am burning. 

Then I entered into that most revered status: perimenopause.  All bets were off.  I didn’t necessarily gain a great deal of weight but my body reverted to its once familiar state: pregnancy.  I lost what little there was of my waist altogether.  I adjusted.  I got rid of two-thirds of my clothes.  I learned to live with elastic waistbands or pants that sat below the waist.

But then, the stroke and post-menopause and a broken hip.  I’m fairly certain now that my body doesn’t burn a single calorie for anything.  I just got rid of two-thirds of what was left in my closet.  I weigh more than I ever did at full term.  I have to learn to say “no” again.  No, thank you, no wine for me.  No, thank you, no toast for me. No potatoes, no pasta, no, no, no.  In truth, I do not like the word.  No, I do not.

But nearly…

Why do I seem to have so much trouble writing?  Why can’t I seem to form the habit?  I might have found the answer in yet another movie quote. One of my favs is the not-quite-old-enough-to-be-a-classic, “Throw Momma from the Train.”  Perhaps it is because I can somehow relate with the protagonist, Larry.  Not because he is a frustrated divorced literature professor but because he has serious writer’s block.  The movie is funny and has many memorable lines but the one that sticks most often in my mind and haunts me regularly is the one spoken by Larry (played by Billy Crystal) to his class of misfits: “Remember, a writer writes.”  And therein lies the problem.

I wouldn’t say I have a great imagination but I have a fairly active one.  I imagine all kinds of scenarios such as me fifty pounds heavier or what I would do if I won the lottery.  I imagine myself walking again.  I imagine craft ideas or sewing projects.  I imagine myself a published author.  The problem is, most of the stuff I imagine never makes it out of my mind and into reality.  Granted some of that I have no control over.  But a great deal of it I do.

If a writer writes then I am not a writer because I don’t actually get most of what I think or “write” down on paper.  I mean, sometimes I do because obviously I’m writing now but most of my really creative stuff stays stuck in my brain, inaccessible at the moment that I sit down at the computer.  I can sometimes access it through voice recording but the super good stuff stops short at the connection between brain and fingers.  And the real casualty in this is you, dear reader, because you will never know what you’re missing.  I am, after all, a writer in my mind.