Christine Eclavea Mercer describes herself as a “freelance writer and all around geek.” On her blog Frog In North Georgia, she writes about technology, humor and “pretty much anything else that comes to mind.” When she tweeted, “Thoughts on turning 40 next year. And gosh, have we really been alive this long?” I had to read the entire post. In it, Christine talks about moving and being welcomed by her grandmother with kisses on both cheeks, a lunch of grapes, cheese and baguette, and a jar of Nivea Daily Nourishing Cream…
In 2010, I will turn 40. I spent my twenties educating myself, growing up, working, and traveling. I did much of it badly. At 27, it finally occurred to me that if I ever wished to procreate I should find myself attracted to nice men, instead of the bad boys of my youth. Else I would be childless forever, or a single parent. I did not find either of those options agreeable.
My standards certainly changed in my thirties. Before that I imagined success the way children do, that one must be the CEO, the President, the Astronaut, the Prima Ballerina. I was taught to aim high like the Air Force.
Children and family were an idea in my twenties, the thing that kept me from getting to work on time because I was stuck behind the school bus, or giving me a headache on the screaming baby flight. They were the thing my mother nagged about at every phone conversation – the reason I stopped calling.
In 1998 the most backward wonderful thing happened: I lost my job. It was a window opening for me. I left my jackass (now ex) husband. And moved to Atlanta to be with my grandmother, who had recently been diagnosed with cancer. By the time I arrived for good it was 1999.
I won’t bore you with the whole of it. That’s the meat. That, and the fact that I declared myself a person who liked men who are nice, and have the ability to stay in one location for more than the number of months between deployments by the military, transfers by the FBI, or sudden relocation by more sinister organizations that shall not be named.
Voila, new town, new decade, new me. Mostly. My damn driving record and total inability to drive 55 followed me.
My grandmother welcomed me with kisses on both cheeks, a lunch of grapes, cheese and baguette, and a jar of Nivea Daily Nourishing Cream. She swore by the stuff and had been tucking it into my suitcase for about five years by then. It was her secret skin recipe that was not at all secret. My mother had rejected it. And she was determined to pass it on.
Continue reading Nivea and Turning 40