Filling Time or Killing Time?

If only I had a passel of grandchildren I'd have what to do with myself. A full-time job or a burning devotion to a cause would accomplish the same thing; alas, I have neither. What I do have is a husband who works hard enough to cover expenses, so I'm all set, except for one thing: filling my days with meaningful, absorbing, beneficial and, if I'm lucky, enjoyable activities, so at the end I won't feel like I was simply killing time.

At a certain age, the options narrow. The world is no longer your oyster, it's more like your empty clam shell. If you've got the money, there's always travel. I tried this recently and while I certainly enjoyed myself, I also experienced the nagging feeling that I'm too jaded to run around with a bunch of instant friends who soon enough would be strangers again, in a foreign land in which I play no part. On the plus side, if life is one big fishing expedition I did manage to land one or two keepers among all the minnows I had to toss back, and it's possible there's more travel ahead, if only to see them again. That's at least something.

Still, here I am back home with me, and we're facing the same quandary. And while a new dawn offers the hope of change, so far nothing has: The newspaper showed up at the end of the driveway, I made some coffee and fed the cats, and with no outstanding lottery tickets, that won't happen. I wonder if other people feel this way, especially the ones with grandchildren.