40 in forty

I remember when my parents left their thirties behind. There were black and white paper plates and napkins, festooned with tombstones and screaming “Lordy, Lordy, look who’s 40!!” First was the party for my dad and then, six months later on his half-birthday, one for my mom. The celebrations were happy, full of laughter and clinking flutes of bubbly. Everyone still looked young.

But I also remember the distinct sense that forty marked the pinnacle of life, the top of the mountain that, once reached, meant there was nowhere to go next but down. Wasn’t that why all the decorations were black and marked with graves? Essentially, forty was a milestone but also one that steered all who reached it toward a single, one-lane path to decline.

That’s a pretty grim birthday present, really. Celebrate the big one and then start marching toward the horizon. If you’re a woman, cut your hair; short, like a practical teacher. And pick a highlight color; you’ll need it soon as the grays grow in. Reading glasses will become necessary, and one-piece bathing suits and longer shorts will replace their skimpier kin. Menopause is nigh.

As you might imagine, I thought the big 4-0 sounded old and not particularly fun.

Fast forward twenty-five years, and I’m forty days shy of 40. I did recently find my first frizzy, wiry grays, and although I know it's not recommended, I plucked them immediately and went to get highlights.

My vision isn’t as strong as it once was, and several glasses of wine really wreck my sleep, but minus the physical declines –that which I already notice and those I anticipate- I haven’t a single qualm about my quickly approaching birthday.

You see, I clearly remember many years of feeling out of place. Between the seams. As if I sat precariously on a fault line.

I haven’t forgotten how we middle school girls had to dress out for PE in the middle of the school day (those horrible, awful, poly-blend maroon shorts!), get sweaty during dodge ball and THEN try to prettify ourselves again. All in fifty minutes. We discovered portable curling irons and it was as if we’d discovered Atlantis; our tri-layer bangs were saved from the destructive forces of Louisiana heat and gym humidity.

Because I had my Units outfit (who remembers Units?) and matching bows, I managed to recover. At least I think I did. Those bangs defied gravity. What was the name of the hairspray we all used? It was like shellac.

I haven’t forgotten how much I disliked high school. How my deluge periods made me feel anxious and tubby and hormonal. Do you know how mortifying it is to be playing tennis with your boyfriend, you in a cute crop top and floral-print shorts, and for him to say, “Um, I think you have something on your bottom.” Blood. Everywhere. We didn’t have cell phones then. I had to wait for my mom to come at the appointed time. When she drove up and I stood up from the hot pavement, I’d left my mark. Was my face as red?

Was it worse to stand out or feel invisible? I wasn’t comfortable with either, so who really knows? And now? Oh, thank god for the passage of time, for the gauntlet of one’s twenties in which you learn what’s important and who you are, whether you want to or not. What a challenging, painful, exciting time of enormous growth.

I love everything about getting older except the physical losses. Those can go to hell. But I haven’t forgotten feeling itchy in my own skin, and I’ll take a frozen shoulder or plantar fasciitis or the inability to enjoy more than two cocktails without paying for it sorely the next day. I’ll take glasses and knees that no longer allow me to sit cross-legged on the floor for more than ten minutes without getting stuck there for knowing and using my voice.

I’ll take it for finally feeling comfortable enough. For having grown out my bangs and refusing the presence of poly-blend shorts in my life. For having surgery to deal with my overactive uterus and finding enough peace in myself to feel what I think must be happy. For standing up for my beliefs and for others. This is worth a hell of a celebration, and I intend to do just that.

***

In honor of the forty-to-40 countdown, I've decided to post daily, a tidbit of wisdom or knowledge I've come across in my decades.

Day 1 (T minus 40): Always wash your feet before getting into bed at night. Who wants grit, odor or dirt in their sheets? Not I! Use a sweet-smelling soap and warm water and then climb into the sack happy.

happy feet

After the vent

Boy did I need that enormous vent session here the other night. Thank you to everyone who sent a "Go Girl" my way as well as those who appreciated the Cruz-as-flaccid-member commentary. I adore you all. 

Despite the fact that I ran three miles and then drank a slight bit of Bourbon and then fell asleep in Jack's bed because he was so warm and cute and awoke the next morning with exceedingly foul, unbrushed teeth, I felt loads better. You've just got to let off steam sometimes, in fun ways and explosions too. There's a time and place, people.

'Twas that very damn evening that I hungrily put together a delicious dinner. Garlicky kale- and mozzarella-stuffed chicken breasts wrapped in bacon and pan-seared until golden and juicy and, for good kale measure, kale salad alongside. Totally satisfying, y'all. 

I did not always love smoked mozzarella, but now, I'm exceedingly fond of it when used in smart ways. Ghibellina (a terrific Tuscan place in DC) first lit my smoked mozz fire with its artichoke, green olive, sundried tomato and smoked mozzarella pizza. To.die.for.

My sister recently implored me to try an eggplant and smoked mozz risotto which I have yet to make but plan to.

We continue to settle in and further make this house our home. Yesterday was the Day of Hanging Art which has made a huge difference. In my opinion, art is like furniture for your walls. And if, like we have, you've collected paintings and photographs and kids' drawings and woodblocks and etchings over the years when they've spoken to your soul and heart and you're fond of them like you are good friends, then reuniting with them is really quite an experience.

Even my dear husband who tends to notice nothing walked in last night and said, "Oh, it's so nice to have stuff on the walls."

Indeed.

The Nut is just a happy cat and is striking out in the new 'hood with an ever-expanding radius. Earlier today I found him balance-beaming atop our fence, his body woven like yarn on a loom in a tree. If he could talk, I think he would have agreed that it wasn't the most comfortable position but then again, maybe not. 

Tired with a side of anger

I guess it started this morning when we all awoke in a hurry. The boys' school conferences started at 7:30am, and I still needed to pack lunches. Tom, who arrived home last night at 11, was funked out and tired. 

It regularly galls me how much slack the women of the world pick up and manage every.single.day. How much mediation and support and love and lunches and phone calls and pediatric forms and organization and so forth so many men cannot do, will not do, do lazily or never even consider doing.

And sometimes, it fucking exhausts me.

I went and paid the floor refinishers who finally were able to remedy the flooded family room situation. I went and dealt with the painters who, I later found, got paint on the cherry cabinets. I packed those damn lunches and later picked up the child with a cold and sixty minutes later the child without a cold. I organized dinner, both of them. I provided the hugs and comfort when the boys cried upon hearing that their old rooms had been painted over (this was after my second trip to the old house today).

Today I am tired. Tired of being strong. Tired of feeling like the fucking sugar plum fairy of emotions and to-dos and everything besides making money.

I'm tired of being ogled by a painter the other day and feeling a bit worried because I was alone with him and his crew in our new house and he kept asking odd questions.

I'm tired of feeling sad about Percy and like I let him down. He is so loved now, but when I see his little face, I feel awful.

I'm tired of fucking winter and the snow we're supposed to get tonight. I'm tired of days off of school and rude people like that "greeter" at the gym who could not hate everyone more and lets you know it.

I'm tired of stupid asshole, racist, destructive Donald Trump and his equally abhorrent peer, flaccid-penis Ted Cruz. Because I am tired, I don't give a crap about just having told you all that Ted Cruz always reminds of a flaccid penis and a mean one at that.

I am tired of obligations- the wrong kinds, not the right ones. Tired of the dirtiest politics ever that have nothing to do with the well-being of this country or its people but everything to do with individual narcissism and greed.

I felt so sad today while at the old house, picking up the glow-in-the-dark planets and stars that once decorated Jack's ceiling and looking carefully enough at Ol's walls to just make out the green stripes I'd painted for him. I felt so sad when I walked around the yard and saw all the plants and bulbs I've loved and tended over the years coming up earnestly. We won't get to enjoy them this spring.

I realized that I've been so busy that I've never said a proper goodbye to that wonderful home. Tonight that goodbye was foisted upon me.

I stuffed my pockets with planets and stars and our old spare key and a few more knick-knacks. And then I came home to tell the boys, and we all cried together.