Sixty, 3:47am, Awake: A Command Post with Ambiance.

I woke up at 3:47 this morning. Again.

I don’t know what the hell it is with 3:47 a.m., but apparently my sixty-year-old body has decided this is a perfectly reasonable time to begin the day.

So this time, instead of lying there arguing with it, I got up. I made coffee. I went into the living room. And I lit a candle.

Because fuck it. If I’m going to be awake before dawn, we’re having a little ambiance.

Beside me is a lamp made out of a stack of stones, because of course there is. There’s coffee. There’s darkness outside. And there’s a fan pointed directly at me because I am post-menopausal and the candle is not the only thing in this room generating heat.

This is not a spa. A living room. Or an insomniac’s retreat.

This is a command post with ambiance.

And sitting here in the dark, I realized there is something about this ridiculous little scene that feels exactly right: women are taught to fear getting older almost from the moment we’re old enough to understand that our value is supposedly connected to being young.

Then you get here. Sixty. And discover that you are not disappearing. You are becoming considerably less interested in cooperating.

I don’t want to age gracefully. I don’t even know what the hell that means. I want to age fully. Loudly when loud is required. Quietly when I damn well choose. Angry about things worth being angry about. Curious. Creative. Useful. Difficult. Funny. Powerful.

I want candles and power tools.

Coffee before dawn and a fan blowing directly in my face.

I want to make beautiful things with scarred hands.

I want to write books that tell girls things somebody should have told us.

I want women my age to stop looking at the years behind them and wondering whether they missed their chance.

Because maybe this isn’t the part where we fade away.

Maybe this is the part where we’ve finally accumulated enough evidence to recognize how much bullshit we were handed. And enough courage to stop carrying it.

So here I am.

3:47 in the fucking morning.

Candle burning.

Coffee hot.

Fan running.

Dog in my lap.

Still here.

Still building.

Still pissed.

And nowhere near finished.

Fuck the patriarchy.

We’ve got work to do.