It appears to be true that we shrink as we age.

In height, I mean. And maybe our hands.

I always thought when I was a child and observed my friends' mothers (not mine, so much, because mine didn't wear a lot of makeup), that I hoped I would never become one of those people who looked completely different without makeup.

I fear I have become that woman, mostly because when I don't wear makeup, suddenly my features seem ... small.

And I wonder ... is it just our outlook that is outsized when we're in our twenties? Does the realization that broken bones and cancer and organ shutdowns are real things cramp our ability to stand up straight?

Was I really different in my twenties, was I actually taller? Did pregnancy really make my foot bones spread so much I lost height? What's happened to my pelvic floor? Holy shit, am I actually shrinking?

I know my own parents are an inch or so shorter than they were when they were my age. My maternal grandmother had osteoporosis and a bit of a hump that literally robbed her of many inches. And as I grow older and face job insecurities again, it occurs to me that I'm no longer the precocious young one in the room as I spent so much of my internet-bubble youth being.

I've noticed the older women get, the bigger their diamonds. I always in the past attributed it to means, but now I wonder if the diamonds just look bigger on hands that shrink with age.

I look at other women's hands, because I'm at the age where I'm kind of past the diamond fuck-it point. It happens. I'm there.

At this point, I look at a lot of things and wonder ... why?

And as I accompany my dear female friends on this journey of life, I do see some of us starting to shrink. Hands getting smaller, diamonds looking bigger, hugs maybe a little more important as each year goes by. I'm not an old woman by any stretch, but maybe now I'm a woman who takes notice. Where I used to notice engagements and babies, I now track hospital visits and graduations.

I see my friends much more closely than I did. I feel their presence in the room.

I don't want anyone to feel small as they get older.

My birthday is next week. The little angel's is in a few months. She's not little anymore -- she'll be 14. So will this blog.

Everything I start to write I just select and delete. I'm not really sure what I want to say. It's a new year ... 2018. This year (next week), I will turn 44. My daughter in April will turn 14. My marriage in June will turn 17. 

God, the passage of time is relentless, isn't it?

We've started talking about when Lily ... I always had this grand plan of doing a great outing of her identity when she turned thirteen, but I'm almost a year too late ... the little angel's name is Lily Jane Arens ... will soon be driving and have an even greater level of independence ... of even when she will graduate and leave the house ... not because we want that to happen or because we're looking forward to it, but because it is actually going to happen, and if we don't prepare for it, it will catch us by surprise. 

I thought I would do this great outing, but it turns out that the world moved on while I wasn't looking, and she doesn't need my help at all. I got her Twitter and her URL reserved when she was born, and now it's possible that tech is outdated for her generation. 

Ha!

My daughter doesn't need me to shepherd her into the digital world. I thought she would, but she doesn't. Funny, considering my career trajectory. Nothing can prepare us for what comes next.

I'm all over but I haven't been here in a while and I think I might in fact be the only person who still reads this blog. If that's the case, ha, Rita, can you even believe you're writing this on the Chromebook you asked for at Christmas after getting jealous of Lily's light little device? Or that I'm still working on Parker Cleaves but no longer feel even the slightest trace of guilt that it's taking so long? That I no longer expect anyone will notice if I publish another book, nor do I feel too bad about that?

Who is this evolved individual who doesn't torture herself over lack of writerly accomplishment? Oh, me, the one who worked and worked for just such things and realized the world can still move on, no matter how much you hate that.

I come back to this space because it's still mine, as long as Typepad maintains its death grip. The app already stopped working about six months ago, so who knows what will become of Surrender, Dorothy when Typepad goes belly up. I used to save everything down once a month, but at this point, I'm a cowgirl. I'm all, "hey, I can create new words if the old ones go away." That is crazy. Who am I to not worry about losing past work? Who am I to believe my big fat brain can conjure up new ones if the old ones get flushed?

There is comfort and joy as a creative to trust you will make new words that will be just as good as the old ones. I spent half my life worrying I would lose what I had written. It has only been in the past few years I've learned to trust that there are more where all the old ones came from. My stories will just get better because they'll be informed by everything that came before, and more and more is coming before.

I started my career when I was half as old as I will be next week. 

I've been thinking about that girl I was then.

I've been thinking about fear, and career paths, and money, and making it work. I've been thinking about being hit by a bus or really bad cancer tomorrow. I've been thinking about what it will feel like when my daughter leaves home. 

I've been looking in the mirror and asking, what's next?

And I've realized, if I ever stop asking what's next --- shoot me now.