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?

Development

“How have you developed emotionally, spiritually, mentally and physically over the last 12 months?” [Grit & Virtue]

One rainy Saturday, Young Gun made me sit down and watch Batman (animation) movies all afternoon. Dishes were in the sink, clothes needed washing, the floor needed vacuuming and we still had to move, but he put his size 13 down and I obliged.

One of my most favorite comic book characters is the Joker. Something about his sarcasm, wit and overall cookooyness (made up word…you’re welcome) resonates and the moments of humanity that peek through (barely) always had me curious about who he was really. And then, on said rainy forced-to-relax-Saturday, I got to see the man behind the (not so funny) jokes.

The Joker used to be a pretty decent guy, according to the story told in the Killing Joke. If memory serves me right, he had a fiance, he was a struggling magician and trying to live life on the up and up. Then he fell into an unfortunate circumstance which led to crime, Batman, and vats of something sinister. The rest is history.

When I think about the question of my development over the last year, I recall the evolution of Mr. J. Everything evolves. It is a large part of existence. Change is bound to happen when the circumstances change. The environment dictates the growth. The environment around us helps to develop who we become.

To think about how I have developed or evolved over the past year is dizzying. Mostly because I really do not know the answer, and searching for it is giving me a headache. What I can say, is that I know I have evolved–it is inevitable. I also know my evolution is not quite as, uh, ruthless as Puddin’, but I do suppose it will be fully revealed over time. When it is revealed, it will be a perfect fit for who I am today.

When the Killing Joke ended it all made sense. Who Mr. J was at the moment was not who he had always been. His development (no matter how twisted) was shaped by his past wins, losses, and run-ins. He was still himself, just a little…different. I do not doubt my development is the same, albeit not as twisted.

~SM

Do Your Boobs Hang Low?

Can you tie them in a bow? I can’t quite do that, however, if I am laying just so I think I can toss one over my shoulder. Hey, listen, age happens. Things drop. Hips hurt. Knees remind you you are definitely mortal. Of course, there are always plumpers and fillers, doctors and knives to fix those sort of things. But why bother? I figure, if it hangs low—let it. If you can throw it to and fro—do it. Its all temporary anyway.

Acceptance. It is the first stop on the journey to find 40. I cannot be flip with everything in life, flicking a boob and middle finger. There are some aspects of life I have to accept, and the most important item on the list is my body. Like, for real this time.

This soft ol’ gal has helped me run twenty whole, real (slow) miles (and crawl the other six). She has held three kids and spit out each one healthy. She has looked the other way when Patron shots were aplenty and she has kept on pushing when the tank was below E. She has endured weight lifting, Insanity, hiking, biking, and running when the scale (and knees) said it probably wasn’t a good idea. She has kept me when day turned to night turned to day and no sleep was had. She has fed babies and barely fed herself. She has managed to continue to love and provide for me and those around me when all I could do was point out her every, miniscule flaw. She wore the white hat. She was the gladiator when I couldn’t be. She kept me standing in the sun.

Looking back, it breaks my heart to remember the things I thought/said about myself. I was always so busy trying to look how I thought beauty and comfort should that I neglected what was already wonderfully made. I was so worried about revering what I didn’t have, I neglected who I had.

On this first leg of the journey, I have got to carry as little as possible. I have got to step onto the path with only the necessities in hand. I cannot possibly expect my body to carry burdens never meant for her to carry. She has enough to handle. She will have her hands full, anyway. She’s got to learn how to tie these boobs in a bow 😉

~SM