Revisiting That Bucket List

I’m sitting in my bedroom, jealously listening to the conversation going on in the living room. Rev is sitting very close to a PYT (for non-Michael Jackson fans, that means “Pretty Young Thing”), speaking in hushed tones. He’s been looking forward to this date for weeks. He left work early to get here, probably driving a little faster than usual to make it on time.

I’m not jealous because of PYT’s age, or the fact that she’s cute and funny, and did I mention cute? I’m not worried about anything “inappropriate.”

I’m jealous because Rev is learning something new.

PYT is a music teacher, and Rev is learning how to play the guitar. As in, how do you hold this thing and where do I put my fingers? beginner guitar lesson. He joins Scooby and Doodle, who have both been learning to play the piano for about nine months now.

And I’m jealous.

Oh, I already know the basics of guitar, having taken a year or two in grade school. If I picked one up, I could play along to a few songs, so long as you didn’t throw too many sharps or flats or major sevenths at me. I have no desire to become the next (old) Taylor Swift.

I’m just sitting here feeling sorry for myself, asking myself, What is the last new thing you learned how to do?

I was going to learn to speak Spanish. Never did. Ballroom dancing? Nope. I did start yoga, but that’s not really a skill you learn and master (unless you’re planning to make a pilgrimage to Tibet or something). For a hot second, I thought about taking voice lessons, to learn how to sing the right way. That died a quick death when I realized I would then have no excuses for not singing in public, or at least in the church choir.

How can it be that at forty-four, I’ve lost the ability, the inclination, to learn new things? What the heck happened?

Maybe I’ve become too complacent. Two years ago, just after my diagnosis, I went through the usual bucket list exercise: what are the things I wanted to do before I die but haven’t gotten around to? Because death, at that point, seemed real and imminent, no matter what imaginary statistics the oncologists pulled out of their . . . hats.

Now, I sit here, listening to the first, halting chords – and really, what courage it takes to put yourself out there in middle age to learn something completely new – I think about what I can learn to do in my spare time. I can’t think of anything that isn’t too time-consuming (spare time? Hah.), too expensive, too out there. I’m mad at myself for not having any interesting, pro-active hobbies. Even my resume is boring: I enjoy reading, writing, and listening to music. Snore.

Clearly, I have some soul-searching to do. What can I learn – I mean, really throw myself into – that can enrich my life? I don’t want to become one of those sour, provincial people who do the same boring stuff every boring day.

Because, if not now, then when? Tomorrow isn’t promised to any of us, and I don’t want to reach my sunset consumed with coulda-woulda-shouldas.

Everyone needs a mission. That’s mine, and, ask they say, I choose to accept it.

Stay tuned.