Is this the year?

T'S too freaking cold tonight. Time for a Mormon mocha. ("What might this wonder of nature entail?" I hear you cry. Well, basically it's Abuelita chocolate made double strength with hot milk, a coupla good spoonfuls of Pero mixed in, then a drizzle of vanilla and almond extracts to finish it off. And maybe some half and half if you don't like having your tongue scalded. Yes, it's mighty num and it warms my tum. And no, Howard Schultz, you can't copyright "Mormon mocha" and sell it at Starbucks. That's dumb.)

As I sit here sipping and making "mmm" noises and muttering occasional imprecations under my breath against the guy who sold the Supersonics, I can't help but be drawn back to this month's overwhelming question:

Is this the year?

Really, it's not so much a single question as it is the preface to a number of questions:

• Is this the year I finally finish my book, so I can try to get it published?
• Is this the year I get serious about reading audiobooks for fun and/or profit?
• Is this the year I submit a mad glut of short stories to publishers and anthologies, in the hope that at least one will get loved and printed?
• Is this the year I actually work out to lose excess fat and improve my health?
• Is this the year I start actively seeking out and doing more things that make me happy?

It's not as though I've never asked myself these questions before. The primary difference is that this year, I'm 50 years old.

I didn't mind turning 40 so much. In fact, reaching that milestone was kind of a relief, since I'd harbored a small superstition about not making it there; my father died a month short of his 40th birthday. Being in my 40s didn't feel "old" per se. But hitting 50 back in November was... not painful, exactly, but troublesome. At 50 you're far too old to be a wunderkind and too young to have achieved anything like wisdom. You're meant to be "established" by your fifties, a well-defined personality with significant achievements in life; instead I feel like I'm just dropping anchor.

There were several personal goals I'd hoped -- and failed -- to attain before my 50th birthday. While I have managed to travel out of the country, see London, get a story or two published, etc., there are so many other things I've wanted to do. And I'm aware now, with a twinge of something like sorrow or panic, that there's less of my life before me than there is behind me.

Gahh. That way lies midlife crisis. The point is not to go crazy, it's to start looking over the half-formed vague desires floating in my skull and decide: of these things, what do you really want to achieve? And what's the timeline to achieve it?

It's too freaking cold tonight. I'm going to sleep on this, and give it some more serious thought in the morning.

ETA (September 10, 2021): No. The answer to my question was definitely "no."