Boxes of Life

Whose Boxes Are You Living In?

I’m lying in bed belly-flop down. That’s my escape route into my world. I’m shutting down! Yes, that’s right, down I go into my idea of peace and calm.

My head is resting on my left arm.

My eyes are closed.

They fall open!

I see a hand draped across the pillow. It must be mine.

I’m lying here alone.

A tanned hand speckled with spots, lined with slightly protruding dark blue veins. The forefinger must have a mind of its own because it’s heading west a bit.

Yep, it’s mine alright!

Where did the years go?

I’m 75–1/2 now. Yes, I count the halfsies.

It’s funny. When I was 22, I felt old, not in the physical sense. All my body parts worked fine.

It was something else — a passing by feeling — a temporary feeling, and at times, like there was a watchful eye on me.

In the back of my mind, I was acutely aware the curtain could fall at any moment — a strange feeling for someone so young.

Maybe it was because I saw life as a bunch of boxes.

Box 1: Go to school, graduate, get married.
Option A: Go to school, graduate, get a job, then get married.
Option B: Go to school, graduate, get a job, stay single.

Box 2: Get a dog and start a family — or start a family and get a dog. Either way, the house gets messy.

Big Box 3: Buy a house, rent an apartment, upgrade the car — something to show you’re keeping up with the Joneses.

Big Box 4: Mortgage, rent, social events, medical appointments, forever bills, and obligations too numerous to count.

Of course, not all in this order, and everyone’s boxes contain a unique list. But you get my point.

It was all played out as if a playwright had handed me boxes of scripts. “Here ya go. Here’s your boxes,” he says, as he stacks all the boxes in front of me.

I could see it all before me, like watching a dramatic play in a grand theater, the biggest box of all.

How do you escape these boxes when you don’t fit into them? Especially when you don’t realize it until much later…

Boom! That’s why I felt old at 22! I was already worn out before I began.

I was so busy trying to stuff myself into a box that was never labeled — Cindy’s!

My boxes of life created an anxious life, sometimes a depressive life. No one told me I didn’t have to live in these boxes. Where did I get that idea? I was so very naïve, I’m embarrassed to say.

Maybe that’s why I always felt a little out of place — a nagging feeling of something’s off.

I felt it even at 16.

My friends and I would pile into a car and roar down Main Street, blowing the horn, radio blaring, everybody talking at the same time, and this was supposed to be fun and exciting?

I just wanted to escape, get out, take a walk, talk normally without yelling, and enjoy the summer breeze.

I saw no point in riding up and down a street, circling the streets of our small town, and repeating the same run over and over again.

Was it just me? Maybe! I did run that idea around in my head for a time, thought maybe I was one of those depressed teens.

However, I didn’t quite fit that category either.

As a high schooler, I loved basketball games, sitting up in the bleachers, roaring and screaming with the crowd for our team to win. I lived for those moments. It felt like something — not just aimlessly going back and forth or in circles — it was to win.

Though our team lost many times, that wasn’t the point. The point was that there was an active reason for it, an outcome.

That’s the difference. Everything wasn’t perfect, but it meant something. There was purpose.

And it was exciting to watch and wait.

I discovered late in life that I thrive in spontaneity. I don’t like plans.

But a completely spontaneous life is not a reality. There are obligations. There are appointments. There are responsibilities.

I can handle them all better now, just knowing — knowing that I don’t need to cram myself into a box. Yes, some boxes are preordained, but many I can quietly throw away.

I composed one last script for myself, though, and I’ve tucked it away in my one last box and labeled it.

“I’m sitting by a crackling fire in my living room. My head leans on the soft cloth of a wing-backed overstuffed chair. A book lies open on my lap. A dim golden-orange hue about the room emanates from a small antique lamp beside my chair, and my favorite rug, rich with bold earthy tones, lies beneath my feet.

My eyes are closed. I have a peaceful smile on my face, almost grinning as if I know something nobody else knows.

All the boxes are gone now.

It’s funny how I don’t feel old anymore.

But maybe that’s the secret — not all boxes are meant to be opened.

Some are meant to be left behind. Some never belonged to us at all.

And the last one—the one that matters most—has a script inside that we wrote ourselves.

I labeled mine Cindy’s.

It’s tucked away now, and it’s full.”

I first published this story on Medium.com, but it carries my soul, so of course, it deserves a spot right here on Vital Sassy Seniors/People.