7 or 8 of My Most Memorable Birthdays

In no particular order of importance:

1. Turning 50 in Chicago while in training with Christian Peacemaker Teams, Mom coming out for a visit, taking in the city and being with new friends, having earlier walked some Appalachian Trail both alone and with my son as my own gift to myself.  Earlier, team mates shower me with green cards, wrapping their love in color (in the color scheme that is CPT, I am green and that’s not necessarily a good thing).

2. Turning 47 in Glacier National Park, receiving scads of bouncing balls in the mail from seminary friends (if you’ve never received a bouncing ball in the mail, you are truly missing one of life’s great and fun gifts) and being serenaded by co-workers at the park with their own rendition of Take Me Home, Country Roads (yes, I know all the words and yes, Virginians, it is about West Virginia.)

3. Getting a pinball machine and a party for my 40th birthday, accompanied by lots of laughter and lots of friends.

4. Turning 6 – my first birthday party with kids and cake and a dress with a pinafore that my Grandmother made for me.

5. The many months of Beth, where friends indulged my need, my desire, to celebrate me – the laughing and silly gifts, the shared meals and jokes, the good times.

6. My 16th birthday, when I thought I was getting the keys to the kingdom (translate, access to the family car) and what I got instead was a life insurance policy on my life payable to my Dad (he laughed about that one his whole life long).

7. My 18th birthday, which I do not remember much.  The Alamo, the friends, the ritual rite of passage in America – lots and lots of beer and, to my very savvy mother’s amusement, my first crying jag.

Here I am, 58 today (well, in a few hours, to be technical about it).  I want to not like this birthday – it is far too close to 60 to suit me.  But I awake to sunshine and cool breezes, a happy birthday singing message on the phone from an old friend, apple butter left on the back porch by a new friend, bedecked with those silly clapping hands (I love those things), and the sure and certain knowledge that I am loved.  Later I will pack up my new yellow purse (gift from Mom – the envy of all the gals here, who’ve even checked out the very cool lining) – I get to carry evidence of my Mom’s love and care wherever I go.  It is a good day – and who knows?  Maybe this is the most memorable birthday of all.

Why This 50-Something Female Should Avoid the Movies

Okay, so I’ll be 58 in a few weeks, so the 50-something moniker is a bit of a stretch.  But I digress.

Saturday I went with some friends to see Star Trek: Into Darkness.  Loved it.  And yes, I am a Trekkie at heart – deal.

Again, I digress.

I should have known it would be an interesting day when, upon presenting my happy self at the ticket counter, the lady (who, I must point out, appeared to be older than my own mother by several years) said, “Senior” with no question mark in her voice as she proceeded to ring me up.  The best honor system ever devised kicked into high gear as I, with some umbrage in my voice, I confess, protested her judgment that I am at least 65 (and no, don’t try to comfort me that the age there for the senior discount might ‘only’ be 62 – trust me, it’s no comfort).  Trying to make it all better (I’m betting she is somebody’s mom), the lady said, “I just wanted to be sure you got your discount.” – Yeah, that helped.  Not.

Flash forward to getting into our seats laden with the obligatory popcorn, drink and candies, oh, and the raincoat I take to movie theaters (no old lady jokes will be tolerated) to use as a blanket in case I get cold.  Have you ever noticed that there’s no place except the floor (and who wants to bend clear down to the floor?  As I said, keep the old lady jokes to yourself) to put anything down while you get yourself arranged in the seats?  Well, I have.

I thought I was home free after having the candy fall through the adjacent seat to the floor, after I struggled to find the cup holder to put the water bottle into, as I gracefully sank down, popcorn bag in hand, into the comfortable seat awaiting me, only to lose my balance a bit on the way down and fling my right arm (yes, the one with the popcorn bag in the hand at the end of the arm) outward in a poor imitation of an emcee presenting a favorite guest (think Ed Sullivan here for those of you old enough – see, now you’ve got me doing it).  Popcorn flew everywhere.  Thankfully, the folks sitting in front of me had not yet arrived, sparing themselves the butter-salt shower that in another time dimension (it was a Star Trek movie, you know) awaits them.

After the movie, I only sighed a bit as I crunched my way to the end of the aisle and out the theater, with the obligatory pit stop on the way out (in my defense, my much younger girl friends did the same).  Thankfully, there actually was a hook in the stall (you try dealing with a raincoat and purse when there isn’t one – it’s no fun in that position to wrap your raincoat around your neck like a scarf and your purse like a feed bag, let me tell you).

Almost home free, I approach the water faucet to wash my hands.  How hard can that be?

Well, I stood there and waved my hands again and again under the faucet.  This, for me, is not unusual – for some reason, those sensor things never recognize my hands and I always end up doing some kind of dance of hand waving that I’m sure would be recognized somewhere in the far reaches of the world as a ritual to a god I’ve never met.  Enter Melissa (one of the friends, whose birthday we were celebrating with this outing) from stage left.  I didn’t realize that she had been standing slightly behind me waiting for me to finish when she stepped up and without remark, turned on the faucet with the lever usually provided, and stepped back.

I stood there for a moment – a nano-second, surely –  in disbelief, realizing that I had been trying to wave the automatic water stream into action when there was no automatic water stream.  After the nano-second, I burst into helpless laughter and another nano-second later, so did Melissa – a good friend always waits to see if you get the joke when it’s on yourself and Melissa (Woman Who Brings Water to me now and forevermore) is a good friend.

Next time, I think I’ll just take my senior discount with gratitude and move on.

After all, I’ve earned it, don’t you think?

It’s either that or avoid the movies altogether.

And I really like movies.

My Body Ageing

I can almost feel it on the cellular level – this body on loan to me ageing.

I stand at the sink and wash my hands, aware of their morning stiffness, with a prescience of time yet to come when one hand, of necessity, will cradle the other, frozen in place by the vagaries of time.

Where did my ancestors get the courage to get out of bed?

Grandma, walking and walking and walking some more, hoping against hope to walk the pain out; or maybe just needing to prove to herself that in spite of all, she still could – until she couldn’t.  That was the day she died – the day when she could no longer walk.

My people are a moving people.

We may move in place – marking our territory with our pacing.

Or we may travel far.

But we are a moving people.

My mother now travels with her mind in the books she reads and with her fingers with the many family and friends she ‘visits’ across the many lines, tangible and intangible, that now connect us.

It’s true: bodies in motion tend to stay in motion, while bodies at rest, well . . .

Time is a sneaky, creeping thing: there’s always plenty of it . . . until there isn’t.

My body ageing is warning me – don’t believe Sister Time’s lying ways.

7 Ways to Avoid Being Depressed About Your Age

This started out to be a list of 5 good things about being 57.  I really don’t know five good things about being 57.  I’m 56.  But I sure am hoping there are at least five – good things – about this impending age that careens beyond my control towards 60.

But if you want to avoid being depressed about your age, especially at 56, here goes:

(1) don’t let a friend take you out to celebrate your birthday four months early;

(2) don’t look in the mirror too closely – ever! 

(3) don’t stay up until 4 a.m. thinking you can bounce back the next morning like you’re still in your 20's . . . or 30's . . . or 40's . . . ;

(4) don’t round up - ever (as in “I’m going to be 57 – wow, that’s almost 60!);

(5) don’t hang out with much younger people – their shock at your age is flattering, but it is still shock;

(6) don’t start cello lessons at 56 – the sound of the 12 year olds racing across the strings with their spry bows will only depress you, for you will never have that agility again;

(7) never – and I do mean never – read or watch Mrs. Dalloway – there is literally nowhere to run from the musings of the ever genteel title woman’s ruminations on the things she will never do again.

So there it is – my list of how to avoid being depressed about the ticking clock.  Most days, I’m glad to be who I am, where I am, and the age I am.  But every now and then, that blasted ticking clock reminds me that the alligator waits*.

And I hate alligators!

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*Check out Peter Pan if you don’t get the reference.