Finding 40: I Am Not A Young People

At some point, every person looks to the left and the right of the number line and plots their current position. Some feel there is much more life to live. Others are tired and ready to go home. Then there are those right in the middle–their minds squatting on the left of the line. 

That was me. I was a squatter. I lived in a house my name wasn’t on, and I had no idea when the Sheriff would come knocking to evict me. I can only imagine all of my things strewn across the lawn, about 90% of them sensible cardigans and flats. The other 10% packed haphazardly in a too-large tote bag parading as a purse. When did that happen? Where are my heels? Where are my ripped jeans and short skirts? I would look at the lawn in shock.

He/She would tell me I don’t belong or have worn out my welcome. “This place,” the Sheriff would say, padlocking the door, “doesn’t belong to you, Miss. It is time to move along.” I would stand there, too shocked to cry. Move along? But to where I scream clearly in crisis. Where?! Shrugging, he/she would say, “Back to 40, ma’am.”

TBH, I have been super lost these last 3 years. Actually, downright depressed. At one point, I was drowning myself in Nothing Bundt Cake and murder porn, but after about the fifth time seeing the same girl at the bakery, I realized the lack of eye contact wasn’t because she was shy. She recognized drowning when she saw it….a sad and sorry at that.

I didn’t think it would happen to me, you know? Mid-life what? Please. I know me. I love me. I’m good. But after 3 years of new aches, exhaustion, and loathing the thought of one more dish/menu plan/bill to pay/person, I realized mid-life was creeping and dying salt and pepper hair purple wasn’t going to fix it.

I thought quitting my job would help. The purple hair might have been a good step, albeit apparently dying gray hair is not recommended (le sigh).  Moving to another state was an option. Being a beach bum and seeking the real meaning of life was a thing. I even bought a pair of shorts, but the thought of anything without elastic is torture, soooo…nope. I spent hundreds of dollars in Ulta on creams, scrubs, conditioners, and face paint, but I didn’t find much under that rock either. The only thing changing was my age…and my attitude. Well…and perhaps my chin hair (I now have 3 gray ones–Yay).

God probably got tired of the ambling and ridiculousness, so He shut it down, locked it down. “Cut it out,” He said as I stood at the table, burning from everywhere. Apparently, no one else was hot (le sigh…again). There were signs of 40 along the way–the radio dial staying on classic R&B stations and then morphing into talk radio, always finding the words “back when I was…” or “you young people…” or (the worst yet) “this is music?” spilling out of my mouth with ease, and, daggumit…not being able to read small letters (pill bottles are the devil). But staring at my amused GYN, praying His “cut it out” moment wasn’t what I thought it was, shake her head and say, “Yea…it sounds like you are starting the next phase, girl,” cemented it. F$&#.

I came to terms with it, along with all the other stuff. My hair would stay gray, one margarita was enough, and the aches were what they were. Slowly but surely, I came to 43, even if a part of me was still hanging on to 23. I sat at the table and watched as the 19-year-old turned 20–thin, beautiful, vibrant–laughed and joked with the other 20-somethings in their far-off land just feet away.  This place, I thought, looking around at the restaurant of the new 20-something’s choice, is for young people…and I am not a young people.

For the last 1,000 days (give or take) I have been searching for 40. I have been searching for a sort of elegant wisdom–an Oprah ah-ha moment if you will. It came slowly. It came with hot flashes and a crotchety attitude (‘Mommy, can you not make your eyebrows look mad?’). It came with stubborn gray chin hair and a little cellulite. It came with itchy c-section scars and blurry sight. It came, sitting at the end of a table practically on fire, mixing raw meats and thinking more of salmonella and catching on fire and less of the adventure. It came without bows, boxes, or bags. 40 came…I found it.

I gathered my sensible dresses and cardigans off the lawn, folded them neatly, swung my too large tote purse over my shoulder, and moved along. Maybe now that I have found 40, I can settle in and start having some fun. Skinny dipping, anyone?

Farewell

Tonight, I sat on my couch scrolling through IG, and saw the VOGUE cover. I fought to hold back tears. I am allergic to weepy, but tonight (albeit the dam held) I allowed myself to feel the sadness. It was really happening. I failed, and VOGUE made it real.

This might be how many felt the day their bigger-than-life hero Magic or Mike or Kobe hung up their jerseys. The small crack in the reflection of who they could be hurt just a little, but they understood. They knew it would happen one day. The injuries would be too much or lives would take sad turns or the love of the game wouldn’t be enough, and the player would walk away. They would stand in the center of the court, sweating, hands on hips, head hung to reach the mic spilling their love out for all those ready to drink it in. Their gratitude for the moments gained and lost would fill the arena and hearts would swell. The fans would be forever grateful for the shared experience. It helped them seek higher, and dream farther.

My 43-year-old self has little energy for dreams these days. I could very easily spend my life laying in bed and eating quarts of ice cream for breakfast. But deep down, the parts of me still forming ideals about life, love, and the ridiculous pursuit of happiness held one dream so close to the chest it ached. I allowed life to smother it, I suppose. I let rent and ridiculous spending choices and lack of belief that it could happen slip in and kill it quietly. It seems silly, really, to lament a moment in time that never existed (nor perhaps ever will), but nonetheless, I do.

The sun is beaming on center court, and the grass is long since worn by days of play. The beige earth peeks beneath the green as if it hadn’t been cared for at all. But those of us who had been glued to the bodies decorated in gleaming white below, know it had. We know this is the moment the grounds had been given special care. I smile. I am here. Finally. I am here, grinning ear to ear, ready and willing to pour every ounce of self into this moment because it is what I dreamt of for a decade (or more). She enters, chocolate skin covered in white…quiet confidence laced with a maturity only age (and perhaps mothering) could lend. I watch as she moves for hours with an athletic grace I have only seen a few possess. Win or lose (but preferably win), I will drink in every second.

The dream plays out in New York, too, and involves pizza, bagels, and shopping but the outcome is the same. I am there, watching one of the greats leave it all on the court for what is to be one of her last.

My heart is heavy at the thought of packing it away and leaving it on the shelf with the rest of the dreams deterred. I promised myself–I pushed it out into the Universe. I would sit in England or in New York or even here in Atlanta and watch her play. It wouldn’t be from behind a computer monitor under the office fluorescents or from the small screen of a phone. It wouldn’t be from the living room. It would be live…a living, breathing experience. Serena had been my reminder over the years to be better, push harder, live in the skin God envisioned, and never, ever, be apologetic about being the best. Never. I ignored that reminder (more often than not) and fell into patterns of life I wasn’t called to, but nevertheless, I carried it, for better or worse. And for just a moment, I wanted to breathe it in with the fresh air. Yet…

Time moved–it IS moving. Time didn’t stand still and wait for me to get it together. It never once asked how it was going. It never once sat me down and said to get my shit in line. Instead, time just kept being time. I sit, staring at the VOGUE cover wondering how many more things I would allow to get in the way of….well….anything. Time never stood still. Life never stood still. I did.

I suck at tennis, by the way. I tried to play. I even attempted the grunts and the fast serves (they never ended up standing ON the court–ever). I tried the tennis skirts and the back and forth sway at the baseline. It all went terribly wrong. But I tried. That was the extent, though. Hobbling back to the car, I knew I couldn’t touch her path (not that I was really trying). I had my own and (after icing my knee) I had to get about the business of walking down it. The knee healed and the tennis rackets sat in the garage gathering dust. Time never waited for me to walk the path. It never sent any reminders–except for one, decades later. “Farewell”.

I have resigned myself to watching her, on television, move to the center of the court, hands on hips, and spilling her love out for all those who wish to drink it in. I will be sad, and, perhaps in the sorrow, drop a tear or two, but it will be more for myself and less for her. She owned her time. She set her sights and kept moving toward the mark–beautifully imperfect. A move forward is still a move in the right direction. She gave Time its marching orders and it obeyed.

As I sit and watch her go, I will hold dear the lazy days of tennis watching and the very real connection to something outside of myself. Recognizing the moment the sisters appeared, social class nor money could keep possibility out. I will hold dear the dream, the inspiration given and the realization that anything…everything…is possible…Even while sitting on the couch, with a pint of ice cream watching the G.O.A.T grunt her way into victorious retirement.

~SM

Being Helpful

I have about $34 to my name currently. I also have a $20 bill nestled safely and sweetly in my wallet. It has lived there for the past 3 weeks. On top of the $34 and the $20 I have about $1000+ I will  spend in the next few days for a baseball trip–of which I currently do not have. Go figure. The only reason why I have not drowned my sorrows in cake and ice cream just yet is because I have faith that He will make everything okay. But you know what they say…faith without work is dead. So, I decided to put in a little bit of work.

I hate asking for help. I would sit in the dark with only candles for light before I opened my mouth to ask for help. It is unfortunate, but it is who I am. I am learning, however, that that is what family and friends are for. So I put a little bit of my head on their shoulders when my back is crushing the wall. This week (please reference the $1000+ above) my spine is cracking the drywall. I asked for help.

My aunt and uncle were one of the first to answer the call. When my uncle answered the call, he reminded me to tithe. It was a funny thing he had mentioned it because it was nothing more than confirmation. Just a week prior I had prayed about my situation (as a whole) and what I should do and the only thing that came back was that. It stayed on my mind for days afterward–you know that nagging pull and tug? Yes, that was it. Okay God, I understand. I have a plan. Starting July 1 I would have it all in place. So–yea–the thing about God and plans….

Remember the mention of that sweet little $20 bill I have tucked away? It is no longer tucked–in my wallet anyway. YG came into the office looking for food to feed his face. He also mentioned that he was trying to drum up cab fare for a lady who had been sitting in the lobby trying to figure out how she would get to where she needed to go. Angel tap, mental nod, bye bye $20. He took a $20 bill out of his wallet ready to hand it to her and I slipped my $20 out too. “You sure?” He said. “Yup.” I said. “Ok, I will try to get you your money back.” I shook my head. “No need. I don’t want it back.” And truthfully, I didn’t.

Someone sewed a seed for me in my time of need and it seemed only fitting that I did the same. The Angel tap didn’t hurt either. I have learned not to argue with God or to hem and haw at His instruction. We have no idea what His plan is. It feels good to be helpful when I am in need of help. To be able to give openly knowing it is His will and for His good and not my own, feels right. I like feeling good and right. It also feels kinda cool to get my sweet little $20 back…she didn’t need quite so much after all 🙂

~SM