Embracing Fifty-Five

In less than two weeks, I'll be 55. As long as I can remember, this has seemed like some sort of a milestone in a very good way. If you're someone who doesn't understand that--someone young, maybe, who thinks of 55 as so old you can't even imagine ever getting there, or someone around that age who hates it and longs desperately for the days when you were head Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader in your cute little halter top and tiny shorts, maybe you want to start out reading Naomi Wolf's interesting take on female middle age here. I'm not a Wolf fan, but she has some interesting points. I'm kind of beyond middle age, of course, since I'm not really thinking I'm going to live to be 110. Or that I'd want to, really, unless everyone I care about is still alive and doing great. And dating isn't a concern, so scratch that part of it. OK, so maybe there's no reason to read it after all. Just a suggestion.

But never mind that. Let's talk about why 55 is exciting for me. (Yeah, I know: "It's all about me, me, ME!") I've been thinking about it a lot lately because let's face it: this summer has sucked the big winkie. Since April--let's recap, shall we?--I've had an on-going ear-cartilage-piercing infection, bronchitis, mono, a dog bite, and a broken toe. All little things, by themselves, but all together, one after another, kind of a major pain in the butt. So I've been thinking about health kind of a lot more than I would like to. It takes up brain space I could really use for all the Important Stuff I want to do. Videos I want to make. Interviews and podcasts. Hard to organize those when you're wondering what's going to leap out and bite you next, figuratively speaking.

Two weeks before I turned 50, my mother died. So this will be five years since my mother's death. That same year my father was diagnosed with colon cancer, and in the hospital he introduced me to his gastroenterologist, who looked me up and down and asked, "How old are you?" I told him I would turn 50 that year, and he poked his finger at my chest and said, "Make an appointment to come see me. Now."

So every five years for the rest of my life I get to have the lovely experience of a colonoscopy. That will be Tuesday. As in, "the day after tomorrow." Be glad you're not here: I will be very, very grouchy. And also so hungry that I might try to eat your shoes.

So: on what are generally accepted as The Milestone Birthdays--50, 55, 60, 65, etc.--I'll be reminded more than usual of both of my parents and the ends of their lives. I'll have the big fun of The Body Cavity Probe (or however you choose to think about it, if you can bring yourself to go there), and I'll have to confront aging. Getting older. All together, it could be an excellent excuse for getting totally bummed out. Taking to drink. Hiding under the covers. Stealing a convertible and heading off to Mexico with the pool boy, were I not 1) averse to fast cars with no actual material parts between my head and the rushing-by-outsideness and 2) foolish enough to think driving to Mexico is something I could safely do given a) the likelihood of being ambushed at any point along the way and b) the fact that I have no passport, not having been to Mexico since before one was required and 3) happily married and 4) having no pool and 5) not having been interested in men young enough to be referred to as a Pool Boy since I was about 17.

But never mind that. Fifty-five, to me, has always seemed to be the age when you can finally do whatever you want to do. It no longer matters what others think of you, and you don't have to compete with anyone. For me, middle age has always seemed like the time when you can finally step down from the competition. You know, the biological competition to look "good" in ways that signal your ability to reproduce: waist-to-hip ratio, perfect teeth, long, glossy hair. You know:  general perkiness. Since you're biologically past the age when you *can* reproduce (unless you're one of those totally wacked out people who is so bent on having another kid that you're willing to undergo surgical intervention so you can have a baby at the age most people are sending theirs off to college and then have to wonder if you're going to be able to get a day pass from the nursing home to attend her college graduation), you don't have to worry about sending out signals to attract other breeders. Instead of trying to look the way you're supposed to look, you can think about looking the way *you* want to look. And let me hasten to add that that does not mean, not at all, that you should quit bathing and flossing and start eating everything in sight until you can't even climb stairs. You already know how I feel about that. But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm not talking about giving up and becoming a lump. I'm talking about thinking about what you want to look like, rather than how society expects women (and men) to look. Shave your head, dye your hair, wear only silk saris, get your nose pierced (not that I will ever be getting any more piercing--goodlordalmighty: this one piercing has cost me more time and money than all the rest of the ear piercings (11) together).

You get what I mean: you can be you, rather than what someone else expects of you. Even if you're out there dating (my sympathies go out to you, although maybe perhaps you're better at it than I ever was), it's to be hoped that you're dating intelligent people who appreciate a sense of personal style and flair and confidence more than they do the essence of youth, the one they hope will reflect onto them and make them appear younger and more virile. That's the hope, in a civilized world. I know better, of course, since I know people who are middle-aged and trying to date, and all I can do is shake my head and offer two words: private investigator. Worth every penny if you're serious about dating.

Anyway. When I've talked about this--about how I'll be when I'm 55--It has been pointed out to me, with some hilarity, that I've kind of been there for a long time. That maybe I already do and say what I want. OK, that's true. Sort of.

But. In the past, I've always tried to tone it down. Mind my own business. Be nice. Be quiet more often than not. That's how I was raised, and although I may have left it behind, it's surely had an influence. As I've gotten older, though, it's seemed increasingly tedious, both silly and irritating, to be quiet when I have something to say. Like tonight, for example: three big, dirty, tattooed guys get out of a truck at Starbucks, the kind of truck that they back into the parking lot (so you figure it's a work truck) and leave running while they go in (so you're pretty sure it's someone else's gas, but maybe not: people here make so much money from the oil bidness that gas means nothing to them but the smell of money). As they walk across the parking lot, one tosses his cigarette. Lit. Smoldering.

In the past, I might have just watched them. Or I might have gone and stepped on the cigarette. Not any more. I point and yell, "Hey, your cigarette is still burning!" Like maybe he just didn't notice. And the biggest guy turns to the littlest and says, "Go step on that cigarette." He does and then says to me, "Not much to burn, is there?!" like I was foolish for saying anything. The EGE and I look at each other, both thinking, "What planet are these guys from?" (Mexico, according to their license plate, although they're all anglo and don't have accents.) You'd have to be from somewhere else not to know about the burn ban and the fine ($10,000) that would result if it had started a fire.

There are other examples of how I've gotten a head start on this, like the preacher who started going on and on about a revival, trying to get us to attend, and set me off. Once upon a time I would have walked away, and I started to, but then I couldn't. It was a civil interchange sparked by the realization that I'm no longer able to let people go on and on about their beliefs without response (people here in Midland just assume everyone else shares their conservative Christian beliefs and will start in on them at any opportunity. When I was younger, I would always listen politely, nodding and trying to edge away before they began foaming at the mouth in their enthusiasm for their topic).

What all this has to do with getting older is that, if you pay attention, you'll start to notice a sense of comfort in your own skin: this is who I am, and this is what I like, and this is what I think. It's not about accosting other people or trying to get them to agree with you--this isn't the cliche, "I'm older than you and I know better." Not at all. This is, "I know who I am." (It can be, "I know what's right," but not because the other person is younger; it can be because they're just an idiot (re: dropping a smoldering cigarette in a county that's lost over 28,000 acres to wild fire in 2011).)

I don't mind being the opinionated old lady, although I would be happy to have fewer opinions--I get tired of having opinions about everything. I don't particularly want to share them all, either. I wish they'd just go away--I yearn for zen.

OK--now I'm just rambling. This is a totally disjointed post. I'm sorry. I write for a while and then get up and go stitch and then think of something else and come back and write some more. A bad way to tackle a subject that means something.

So, because I like concrete examples, here are some ways I see to embrace the freedom of turning 55:

~~no more agonizing about what to wear, ever. Remember The EGE's 40th reunion? What was that all about, anyway? I could have worn anything from a cocktail dress to sweats, and I would have seen somebody else dressed the same. It was most likely some reaction to the "high school" part of "high school reunion," where Fitting In was paramount. A flashback, perhaps. Geesh.

~~no more being quiet when someone else is doing something stupid or saying something to me that I don't want to hear (see above). Being polite is one thing; listening to fanatics is something else again. Tolerating stupid behavior is lazy.

~~there's something about mentoring that appeals to me, but I'm not certain what form that might take. I have never seen myself as being in a position to share wisdom (see above: "I'm right because I'm older than you are"), but I feel that changing. Not mentoring kids--that holds no appeal. But something. We'll see, as my mother would say.

~~embracing outrageousness. Not for outrageousness' sake, but for the sheer joy of it not being safe and familiar.

Maybe it's living out loud, refusing to tone yourself down to fit into places where conformity is like the civil code and difference has always been viewed with suspicion. Maybe it's reaching out to kindred souls. Maybe it's--well, who knows what it might be? I surely don't, but I feel it out there, waiting on me. Do you feel it, too? For you, I mean?

I want to be a walking example of living a creative life, and to do that, everything else has to disappear. I will know I'm doing it right when I no longer even notice the people trying to be discreet with the phone cameras and pulling each other around the corner to whisper and point. It's funny to me now. Think how it will be when it become invisible--because if it can be invisible to me, it can be invisible to everyone else who wants to get there, too.

Perhaps I'll turn into the voodoo woman in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Perhaps I will become Auntie Mame. Perhaps I will be like the mysterious gypsy woman with the fabulous skirts. I don't know, but I can't wait to find out.