On Turning 50

On the auspicious occasion of my 50th birthday, I got what  had to be one of the best birthday presents ever...imagine a REAL e-mail from a REAL person! Getting to be as rare as a letter! You do remember those, don't you? I think they went the way of the flash-cube and betamax. (Which spell-check doesn't even consider a real word...sigh). Indeed, all reminders that we are getting...yes...I'll spell it out loud...OLDER. It was from my - ahem - younger brother in Australia. Like me, his life isn't terribly conducive to the whole "keep-in-touch" thing, so this was a great-big-huge treat for me. With all the tact and humor we genetically share, he  suggested that this "Something-0-year" birthday tends to depress people. And I thought about that. 

Now after a week’s worth of age-related sticker shock, I am happy to report that 50 fucking ROCKS. A glance (or stare-down) in the mirror at this age may find a woman pining for a younger version of herself. However, exactly which age would she choose?

Twenty-something with all its insecurities and "must-prove-myself-to-the- world", (or in my case, finding myself chest deep in the play-offs of the Fertility Bowl)? No thanks.

How about 30-something? Yeah, where the first half is spent reconciling all the decisions you were too young to think through from your 20s, and the second half is tip-toeing through the debris field of damage control for same? And the body that no longer responds to work-outs as your metabolism takes an extended holiday? Um...that's a Hell No.

So how about 40-something? Something to be said for these years, actually - where you may feel older, but the wiser part more than compensates. Suddenly going back to a previous age - or even halting the progress at this point flies in the face of that wiser part. After all, wisdom is cumulative, and who wants to go back and do your Bachelors in life, when you're just a few credits away from you PhD? And for me, kids factor in in rather large proportion. Drivers Ed...again?? Uh-uh. Ruptured appendixes, school drama, teen-age angst? Good Lord, no. It has not escaped my Red Letter Day radar that my youngest child who will be leaving the nest turns 18 this year, and I will officially and legally be emancipated from parenting. Although it has been a spectator sport for several years running now, I will be burning birth certificates and social security cards like a mortgage paper that's paid in full! (Okay, not literally - I just don't have to keep those things in the safe to prove they exist anymore. They can do that themselves. Yippee!) And this is much more difficult to accomplish when focused on some mythical better time in the rear-view mirror.

So around rolls the big FIVE-ZERO. Given the 100-year  mark, I'm half-way there! Off to the Back 9, where the grass is, in fact, greener, owing to the immense amounts of fertilizer that's been collected over the years. Where,  if you are 30 or younger, I will now address you as "kid", or "sweetie", or collectively as "children", because I fucking CAN. And I don't care anymore if you have more letters after your name than the alphabet soup your kid spilled on the table. I've straight up been here longer than you and that, all by itself, is license to pull rank. Which is far more difficult if you are trying to look like your 20 or 30-year-old self. Then you just look at bit ridiculous, and that is NOT lost on the younger generation...trust me.

But what of the gray hair? Bring it. I've earned every one of them, and have reason to be proud of that. Laugh lines - (or frown lines...whatever...pfft...semantics) - leave 'em there. Evidence of life well lived. Creaky knees and back? Whatever - now you can legitimately ask the young 'uns to do the shit work for you - and enjoy watching them experience all the things that you already did. (With a drink in your hand if you're clever about the way you ask!)

And while sitting by the RV with said drink in my hand, I contemplated the now popular “Bucket List” that we have all been encouraged to write. Something I actually read in the Reader’s Digest back in the 90s, and did. It was called “50 Things I Want to Do Before I Die”. I don’t have a copy of it anymore, but I know I wrote it with all the youth and enthusiasm I possessed at the time. I can tell you there was nothing of sky diving or bungee jumping…I don’t have those thrill issues. But it was loaded with cool geographical locations and everything from 5-star adventures to slumming it under the stars in remote places. This was also, of course, before the issuance of Philip, and his perceived ball-and-chain genetics. 

Enter here, the wisdom of years and experiences one does not want to repeat, and offer thanks and gratitude! 

Despite the fact that my geographical world has been reduced to 1/3 of an acre in Random Lake, I have through presence of mind and changes in thinking, courtesy of age, made this prison into my palace, where I am the Ruler of All I Survey! I’ve turned disability into ability, to experience the freedom of my life every day. I can create things in my kitchen you will never find at a 5-star restaurant, and it's home-grown. My own gardens are no less thrilling to me than the Chateau de Versailles, without the trip to France. The songs that I write, wrenched from my heart and plucked out on my 100-year-old piano well rival the London Symphony Orchestra to me. Before getting grounded, I was able to sneak in a plane ride or two, and even managed a helicopter flight over Glacier National Park – an experience of natural beauty so intense it made me cry. And taking eight kids to Disney World satisfied my appetite for travel pretty much forever. I get it. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. 

At 50, I contemplate what there is left to experience. Isn’t it all about the feeling? I’ve felt that. Thrill. Fear. Joy. Sorrow. Grandeur. Subtle  beauty. Extremes. Sickness. Health. Not a few births, and but a few deaths. Contentment. Rage. Romance. Heartbreak. Confusion. Clarity. Immense success, and something that looks a lot like colossal failure, but come to find out in 50 years of retrospect that I haven’t actually had any failures. Just experiences, which lead to consequences, which lead to LIFE, which leads to understanding. I have, indeed, settled into a life which agrees with me. 

At 50, I am officially done taking shit from anyone, or anything. I simply don’t need to. I’ve had all my freak outs. I have nothing left to prove. I have survived, and this, in and of itself is an accomplishment of herculean proportions. I have come to love me. It’s been said that we are spirits having a human experience, and I’ve been a damn fine host for this life. 

And whether it was turning 50 or my full-blown face-plant at 48, I have acquired a simple yet complex appreciation for all of life. The maiden years, the mother years, and I heartily welcome the archtypical crone years now with grandchildren in the picture. (Minus the wart and cauldron, although ½ of my kitchen looks a bit suspicious with all the herbs and oils going on…)

Thus, with bucket list fait accompli, children happily checked into their adulthood without my training wheels, I am free to contemplate where I’d like to take this old girl (along with the Love of my life, and our trusty sidekick) for the back stretch…and the UP of Michigan wins by a long shot. Back to the trees, and the earth, and chickens and a cow, and my gardens. At this age, I don’t really want anyone to take care of us, thank you very much. Much like my kids learned to pick up after themselves and do their own laundry, I’ve opted to assume personal responsibility for the rest of my life, and I can’t think of a better place to continue that journey. I have come to that fork in the road of human history, in a country that seems to revere youth and stupidity rather than age and experience, and I’m opting for that road less traveled. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the best years are yet to come.

There are those who mourn 50 – wanting to go back to…what? Not me. I celebrate it – not wanting at all to go back, but forward. Across the 50-yard line toward the end-zone, with all the energy and gusto I can muster so I can, like a good Wisconsinite, finish with a Lambeau Leap.