Author: Christine Elias

You know how sometimes in books you read about women — usually real estate agents in California — who could be anywhere between 40 and 60?

I always thought they were characters. Not real people.

I used to think I could tell how old people were just by looking at their clothes, glasses, and footware. And, of course, a hairstyle tells a story. Then there’s skin: wrinkles, spots and chin hairs speak volumes.

But now that I’m in my forties I’m having a harder time telling who’s my age. I can tell if women are a fair bit younger — they’re dewy and they almost always look good in jeggings.

But I can’t always tell who’s around my age. Sometimes forty-three can look like fify-five. Sometimes forty can look like thirty-five. Sometimes forty-six is just impossible to discern.

So I just ask them what their favourite Echo and the Bunnymen song is…

I had lunch last week with a very enthusiastic and productive person. She’s a successful writer with a ton of other interests. She has done things and she’s doing more. I admire her. She’s amazing.

I don’t do anything. I’m not working on a book. I don’t take pictures. I don’t knit. I don’t sew. Sure, I cook but only because we have to eat properly. I don’t want to open my own boutique. I have no interest in learning an instrument. I will never run a marathon.

Okay, I guess I do a few things. I go to work and work on things that I usually find interesting. I like to read. I enjoy listening to and watching documentaries (I don’t want to make any despite my degree). I like museums and art galleries. I like to travel to offbeat places. I love a roadtrip. I watch television and read quite a few blogs.

None of this — besides work — is especially productive. But for some reason this lack of “deliverables” bugs me less and less as I get older. In fact, I can’t wait to retire to do more of not much…