I turned 45 last week.
Looking at that number, staring at me from my computer screen, makes me grab my newly- purchased reading glasses to make sure it’s not a typo.
45. Really?
It seems that day in and day out I am bombarded with the fact that I am no longer the youthful girl with big dreams and big plans. My eldest son is graduating college this year. My youngest son is establishing himself in his career path. My parents need daily care from me, their only child. All of these little reminders let me know that time is passing, and no matter how much I scramble around trying to hold onto it, it will never slow down.
Sitting in my hair stylist’s chair last week forced me to look at every line and every wrinkle on my skin. For three hours, I had plenty of time to peruse my middle-aged face. I noticed a flabby neck that I didn’t realize I had and a few gray hairs at the top of my head that were hidden fairly well in my red hair.
It wasn’t so much the signs of aging that struck me the most. It was the look in my eyes, one of regret mixed with fear and a hint of sadness. Somewhere behind the age, that girl who thought she could rule the world was still in there, and she started freaking out a bit.
Maybe it’s a mid-life crisis, minus the Corvette in the driveway or a young stud in my bed, but I’ve started feeling a sense of urgency like never before. It’s not a sense of impending doom, it’s more of an uneasiness, a restlessness that goes deep. A feeling that I’m losing everything around me and I’m helpless to stop it.
Nothing quite feels right anymore. It feels like that awkward time in middle school, when I had no freaking clue who I was. One week I was dressed all in pink like a little princess and a few months later, I was in combat boots.
It’s like a tectonic shift from being the woman I thought I wanted to be, the one that other people needed me to be and the woman I need to be. I’m being pulled from all directions from each of these people like a piece of taffy.
But, in the midst of lamenting the loss of my youth, exactly on my 45th birthday, something happened that radically shifted my thinking. I lost a friend who was in his early thirties.
And in that moment, I found a lesson. As I was lamenting the loss of youth and feeling the sting of regret, I realized that some people never get the privilege of getting to 45. And it’s my choice which person I want to be.
Labelling myself as middle-aged not only takes away from the person I am, it diminishes the person I want to be and the things I want to do. Loss is a natural part of life. We lose our loved ones, our youth, material objects, jobs….the key is cherishing those things while we have them and learning a lesson from each experience.
The lessons keep coming this week. Or maybe I’m finally able to see the lessons that are around me every single day. Just maybe I was so busy being “middle-aged” or “depressed” or “insert all the other labels I give myself every day” that I wasn’t seeing what was right in front of me.
My 83-year-old dad has been having health issues this week. So, I’ve spent many days in doctors’ offices and testing facilities trying to figure out what’s going on with him. And as I watched his frail body lying on the examination table yesterday, I tried to remember my dad at my age. As my parents were in their forties at the time of my birth, I was only five when my dad was my age, so my memories are spotty. But, I remember being so in awe of him. He was so much fun to be around, he made everyone laugh, and he truly enjoyed every day of his life. Sure, he had his moments, like everyone does, but joy was at the center of everything he did.
I wonder if he thought about getting old. I wonder if that funny, charming 45-year-old dad who was always laughing thought about being an 83-year-old man in the sunset of his days. Did he lament his loss of youth? Is he scared right now at the thought of the inevitable? As he’s lying on the cold table, the doctor says, “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
“For God’s sake, Doc,” says my dad, “I’m in a gown on your table hooked up to these machines. Where the hell am I going to go?”
It’s then that I realize that my dad knows that seeing the funny, the good, the joy in even the worst, most stressful circumstances is his secret to a happy life. He doesn’t label himself as anything and never has. His label has simply been being “Jim” with no reservations, hesitations, or fear.
So now, I know that the only thing I can do is to live every second to its fullest and to love those around me with an unbridled fervor like never before. And when I’m 83 years old and sitting on a doctor’s exam table, I’ll be able to look over at my sons and laugh, knowing that I’ve sucked every ounce of joy I could from life and that’s how they’ll remember me.