Inappropriate

I went to my book club last night.  We, and i hesitate to call us a "we", because I'm an infrequent visitor who mostly lurks on the virtual periphery checking out the reading lists, are a small group.  We call ourselves Phoenix, rising from the ashes of disbanded and disgarded book clubs.  Kay and I started it after her bookclub faded away, and mine exploded in a spectacular and emotional display of ferocious literary opinion and vicious disagreement.  As I punched the hostess who was hanging off my car as I tried to backup the drive-way, I effectively ended what had been an ongoing two year cat fight between all of us. About books, fueled by jealousies and  judgements and I don't know what.
Kay died shortly after we started this bookclub, and my job soon after had evolved into a fifteen hour stamina challenge on film sets that meant i never went to meetings.  Work or sleep, pick one.
I'm the youngest of this incredibly accomplished group of women.  I've seen them at the peak of their careers, and moving into retirement with enthusiasm and grace.  If they've had any identity crises about this change in their life I haven't seen it.  They speak thoughtfully.  They measure words.  I've only been able to glean their backgrounds from passing commentary, and they have that humility that doesn't sing and gloat their glories like the film hacks i know.  Forensic psychiatrist, judges, lawyers, college administrators, teachers, provincial government bureacrats, CFOs,  I think.  They take fabulous world trips.  They remind me of my aunt Nicole in the way they prepare and digest the experience; journals, expeditions, well researched sidetrips, the unique places they stay and people they talk to.
Last night the author of our book came to the meeting, being a friend of one of the members.  He was an established journalist, who is now teaching at Ryerson, and wrote this book while employed full-time.  I liked seeing and hearing the voice behind the voice and getting more story on the story. Knowing more of him, and how he got from there to being a published author, was satisfying.  As I contemplate the same pile of laundry week in week out, I'm entirely amazed and awed by the hundred steps and prayers on your knees it takes to move from idea to bound book.  And rather than feeling overwhelmed by it I'm empowered that I might spend fifteen years writing and actually finish something.  I have no illusions about being published, but I do wonder what the effect of time and concerted effort would produce for my "writing", blog or family memoir, such as it is.
As I battle my intellectual lazieness, trying to overcome my guilt for not multi-tasking a one hundred semi-finished bitty tasks, I am not a measured speaker.  I blurt.  I spurt.  I hide in corners, catatonic and grey, and a month later burst forth staccato opinions, ambiguous, generalized, trite.  I think i did that last night.  It's an old script, being the youngest of a very smart group of people, and not measuring up intellectually, but putting my body of passion on display with outrageousness and inappropriate conversation.  I shouldn't have talked titties.  I should have shutup.  Sorry.  But score, that I didn't punch anyone.