50 Awesome Things About Turning 50

If you would've asked me at the age of 20 how I pictured myself at age 50, I probably would've said, "Who cares? I'll be old by then."

So, I didn't really make a list of 50 awesome things. I'm sorry. I tried, but then realized most of my ideas centered around the ability to afford things. It seemed a little shallow – as shallow as a 20-year-old! So, I shifted my thoughts and decided to make a list of blessings. But that just seemed like boasting about how perfect and great and talented and smart and beautiful our kids are. No one wants to hear that. So, I decided to nix the list and jot a few observations over this past weekend as I pondered this milestone that I share with Woodstock and Man on the Moon and The Gap.

Observations:

Look at that train.

• The shock of turning 50 can be softened by preparing for it early – like the day you turn 46. I distinctly remember saying "I'm almost 50" back then. It seemed to lessen the blow of actually turning fifty, until, of course, the smart ass in the room points out that I'm now half a century.
• At this age, nothing can be too boring. Boring is actually preferred. Doug and I visited Kenefick Park this weekend. It's a park which features two old Union Pacific locomotives. Yes, we did this upon our own volition. For years, I've been wanting Doug to throw me a surprise party. Somewhere along the line, this wish dissolved. I'd take our visit to the museum any day over a drinking binge. Almost any day.
• No matter their age, our kids have the ability to lift my heart with just the tiniest of efforts. Like a passing comment:"At least you're not turning sixty, Mom. That would really suck." Or, a text that says your long lost daughter can meet you for lunch after all. Or a heartfelt embrace between the kids showing their love for each other. They do like each other! (Those moments really made my heart sing.)
• My mother makes the best potato salad ever. We invited my parents over for steaks this weekend. I knew they'd bring me my birthday gift, but I was most excited about her potato salad. It's that good. It's a little sour, a little sweet and has the perfect texture – not one bit mushy nor overly mustardy like most potato salads I endure. Every mother has that specialty item – the thing they make better than anyone else and their kids will never forget it. Every mother, that is, except for me. I asked my kids what I make that they absolutely love. Nothing came to mind. This, I realize, is something I should work on.
• I will never, ever, ever grow tired of The Cheesecake Factory. Doug and I ate fantastic Indian food this weekend. (He hardly broke out into a sweat after eating a chili pepper!) But with the delicious naan and dashing company (Doug), it wasn't the same as sitting down at a Cheesecake Factory and breaking bread together as a family– as we have many times and happily repeated the ritual on my birthday. By the time we order cheesecake, it isn't so much about wanting dessert. It's about extending our time together as we catch up on each others' lives. Okay, that's not entirely true. It's very much about wanting dessert. And catching up on each others' lives.

My younger self might be surprised to learn that I still have goals and dreams at the ripe, old age of fifty. They're just different than those of the 20-year-old. Instead of dreaming about having a big house, a fancy convertible, and taking posh vacations, I dream about helping my family, writing inspiring books, and taking posh vacations. And by posh, I'm talking really fancy railroad museums. 

My husband worked especially hard to spoil me to the point of guilt this weekend. He watched the RBG documentary and talked feminism with me. He took me any place I wanted including a "SheRocks" concert which reminded me of my long ago dream of becoming a rock star. (Now, that's an actual recurring nightmare I have.) He bought me that gas fire pit I've been wanting. (Thank goodness, because Cole has plans for this.) Best of all, he drove me to Des Moines so our family could spend the day together – and eat Cheesecake Factory. But after receiving so much attention from my husband, my parents, the kids, my coworkers and friends, I've realized something. I'd much rather give attention than receive it. I never would've believed that as a 20-year-old. Perhaps that sentiment is the truest gift age can bring.

Pure love.

On Age

“Oh, how I regret not having worn a bikini for the entire year I was twenty-six. If anyone young is reading this, go, right this minute, put on a bikini, and don't take it off until you're thirty-four.”

That quote is from the late and great Nora Ephron. Unless you're Jennifer Aniston, most women over the age of 40 will relate. Yesterday I celebrated numero 48. It was a fun, celebratory day with lots of good wishes from lots of special people in my life. But it's impossible for me not think FORTY-EIGHT! OH MY GOD. WHEN DID I GET THAT OLD? My own father can't believe he's the dad of an old person. My kids, on the other hand, have always thought I was old. Nevertheless, I will continue to coach myself by saying things like, "Well, I'm not 50 yet." And when that milestone hits in two years, I'll move on and say things like "Well, I'm not 51 yet."

me concerned about age at 47

I used to work with a guy who would tell people he was 50 when he was actually in his thirties. Everyone would be like, "Really? You look so young!" I thought this to be an ingenious strategy. If someone is bound to lie about their age (unless they're under the age of 21), they tend to say they're actually younger than they are, which is kind of dumb really. If I were to tell someone right now I was thirty, they'd look at me and spout out some sort of lie like, "You look so good."  But they'd actually be thinking,"Whoa. That woman hasn't aged well." Best to stick with the truth probably. And why not?

There's much to be said about aging. I could go on about the wisdom you gain as you grow older and yadayadayada. Or, how it's nice to reach an age when you don't have to worry about how to pay your bills. But the truth is that each year brings its own challenges and rewards. Good stuff happens. Bad stuff happens. You figure out how to cope and you try to laugh along the way. Laughing is key as your body starts to take on some strange qualities. (When did my husband and I obtain such bad breath? How does that happen all of the sudden?)

I often find myself reminiscing about the days when our kids were cute toddlers and long to go back to snuggling and reading with them on the couch. Undoubtedly, I loved those moments. But there were the other moments too. The little spats with my husband on dividing up the work. Picking up the zillions of legos on the floor. (I still find them once in a while.) Drying the many tears that come with children. And the continual insecurity that time was going too fast and I wasn't doing everything I needed to be doing.

Then I reached 48. And I'm not so worried anymore. I can go to the grocery store without makeup and not care. My husband and I are as happy as we've ever been. The kids are fine–quite good actually. They can do their own laundry and make grilled cheeses.

Okay sure, my hair needs color every four weeks. There's this squish around my stomach that won't shrink no matter how much I diet. There are things like colonoscopies that lurk in my short future. It's all really okay. I know this because I can put on a bikini (in the privacy of my own home of course) and instead of cry, I laugh–a sure sign of maturity.

me with posse not concerned about age at 48

#Lessons from a 13-Year-Old Boy

My thirteen-year-old boy is fascinated by his changing self. If only I could be half as fascinated with my changing self...

Last Summer

Now

As Cole inches upwards at full sail, I inch outwards–boasting a fresh layer of blubber around my middle. It's like I've placed an inner tube under my shirt for a humorous effect. But it's not funny. Except for when I laugh...and it jiggles. That's kind of funny.

While Cole scans his legs, underarms, and chin for "man" hair, my tresses are spewing out grays like an angry volcano. Perhaps my follicles are protesting from years of color jobs. I wish I could feel as elated about my gray strands as Cole feels when he's certain of a whisker on his chin. But I can not. I can only wonder how long my dye jobs will last. And if the color is damaging my brain. (BTW, Cole's whisker-discoveries are typically illusions only perceived by him. Or a pesky pet hair.) Needless to say, I'll admit I'm too vain to worry about brain damage for now.

Cole and I do share one common affliction, which I suppose is kind of special for a mother and son. Skin blemishes. Zits. Blackheads. Sure, his skin is still pretty beautiful–not quite as unyielding or age-spotty as mine, but both of us sport a few red spots here and there. It's really the only thing that makes him sort of look like a teenager–and the fact that he's almost taller than me now. AND, it's about the only thing that makes me still feel young! Acne!

The other day Cole shouted out, "Oh Mom! I had a great day! Guess what happened?"

I paused from whatever important task I was tending to. Cole had been studying pretty hard lately. Perhaps it had finally paid off! Perhaps he had been selected for something special! The tone of voice indicated something great...

"Well, Mrs. Schaben called out to me in the hallway and said 'Cole?'"

Mrs Schaben was going to recognize him for something! I was already feeling proud, wondering what he had done and what honor he was going to receive.

"She said, 'Your voice is really getting low.'"

Cole just looked at me and smiled.

"Was that the story?" I asked.

He nodded with a big grin. "Isn't that awesome? It was like the best day after she told me that."

I nodded and grinned. To be so enthused with one's own maturation? Well, perhaps it is a gift–a gift I could learn to appreciate myself as well. I guess. After all, aging isn't the worst. Not the best, but not he worst. It can be humbling, but it does teach us to laugh at ourselves. It should anyway.

Eating Licorice

While an abundance of issues are worthy of a blog post (the power of giving, the fiscal cliff, watching Lincoln and Twilight in the same week), today I stumbled on to a topic that hasn't received nearly enough commentary: chewing licorice.

When we are kids, we can eat candy without thinking too much about decorum. We gobble it down, and chunks of bright, hardened sugar circle our lips, then residue tends to journey towards our ears. A few lucky pieces will make it into our hair until Mom finds it in a brush and must scissor it out. But it's all kind of funny. Heck, it's cute! With a bit of a finger wag, and a repressed smile, we are told, "Chew with your mouth closed."

Then we grow a little older. If you're a girl, and you turn into a teenager, eating candy can be seen as something sensual. Eating licorice is not only acceptable, but it might even be encouraged by some twisted, or not so twisted male. One temptress might twirl the licorice, play with it in her mouth, or use it as a straw for soda before deciding to actually nibble at it. Ahh, isn't that...sweet? Whether you think it's sweet, sexy, or unremarkable, it's probably not gross.

Then, you turn forty.

Today I spent the day at a Creighton basketball game with a fifth-grade girl I mentor for the Teammates Program. As we began to snack on our concessions, a small horror overtook me as I began to chew on my licorice. As the candy began its descent into my throat, I remembered how I've been known to choke on the red stuff. And since I wasn't around the familiar territory of family, I slowed my mastication way down so that the candy was practically water before I swallowed. Obviously, the joy of candy has lost its luster. So, under the pretense of benevolence, I gave out most of the damn Twizzlers. Truthfully, I just didn't want puke on anyone.

While the Blue Jays were beating Akron, I had an epiphany. Older ladies (defined as over forty) shouldn't eat candy in public. It's not becoming. Okay, okay. Maybe that's a little harsh. I don't want to discriminate. Older men (also defined as over forty) should follow the same rule. I've witnessed my husband inhale Milk Duds a time or two. And for any of you that think I'm particularly intolerant, think about the health repercussions. Not making a fool of oneself eating candy, in public, might reduce the overall sugar consumption and perhaps prevent type II diabetes.

So, next time I'm at the movie, I will consider my plan. Then I'll most likely remember, with glee, the darkness in the theater. And tell my husband to go ahead with the large pack of Milk Duds and medium popcorn to share. We geezers will choke our snacks down together. Not so sure I'll be delaying the diabetes.

The Moon!

How old do you have to be before the moon is no longer wondrous? Has anyone looked outside tonight?

Last summer our family took in a Twins/ Red Sox game.  Boy-oh-boy! It was an exciting game. Lots of action. Big Poppy hit a homerun. Thome was on the verge of his 600th home run. And the Twins ended up beating the indomitable (at that time) Red Sox. But the sight that bedazzled me? The moon that traipsed across the skyline. I still think about it.

No, the photo does not do it justice.

Okay. Maybe I'm not the most profound baseball fan in the world. Maybe that's why the moon so easily distracted me. But I think most everyone would agree that the ambience of an MLB game is fairly... enchanting. So...wonder how old you have to be when $10 beer and obnoxious fans will lose their charm?

Never, I hope. I've been starting to feel a little old. But then tonight, I looked at the moon. And I remembered last summer's ball game. I think there's a little life in me yet.

On Turning 40, Part I

Things I DON'T like about being 40:

1) My cottage cheese belly (actually started at age 32).
2) Low hanging fruit...not the kind you pick to produce better results.
3) More aches and pains, especially in places you didn't realize you had.
4) Crow's feet, around my lips.
5) Muffin tops hanging over my jeans, shorts, skirts, etc.
6) The fleeting nature of our kids' naivety.

Okay. Reality check. Except for #6, all complaints derive from vanity's perspective. So, have I ever felt good about how I looked? I tried to remember my self-perception twenty years ago and came up with a few things I actually LIKE about being 40:

1) While my tummy isn't so great, the baby fat on my face has subsided.
2) Lower fruit often looks like less fruit, allowing better-fitting shirts.
3) The capability of paying for massages, to ease the intensifying aches and pains.
4) Effortless laughter, to keep the crow's feet around my lips even more embedded.
5) Being mistaken for pregnant, while wearing baby-doll shirts to hide those pesky muffin tops. Who cares if the accuser is thinking to herself how gross for that old lady to be pregnant?
6) Watching our kids grow up to be interesting and caring individuals.

See how much fun this 40-year old Mom had fun with her kid's at the museum?

Okay, it's not so bad being 40. Watch for tomorrow's post: a guy's perspective on turning 40...

The Whisker!

A couple days ago I noticed a dark speck above my lip. Thinking it was a blackhead I tried to squeeze it out. But the more I squeezed, the more I realized that this was no mere blackhead. It was a thick, black hair - not the dark facial hair that you have waxed or bleached. In other words, it was a whisker. UGH! My friend warned me these were coming, but I didn't believe her.

What in the world of evolution would cause a woman's body to start forming whiskers? Even at the ripe old age of 39, doesn't God want us to be attractive anymore? Or is it a joke? By this age, are we supposed to laugh at these peculiarities (like whiskers) since, by now, we should feel comfortable with our looks?

I just thought of something. It's Karma.

Doug turns forty this week. Since I'm only in my late thirties (ahem), it's been kind of fun to play the age card with him. We've been getting a kick out of cutting a few hairs from his ears and nose. (Wouldn't it be interesting to see how long they can grow?)But now I must pay for the joy I took in these events. God's telling me, "You're right around corner, Honey."

Needless to say, I plucked that sucker from my upper lip. It was very thick and fairly long under the surface. I compared the thickness to some stubble on Doug's face. It even occurred to me perhaps I should save the little devil and compare it to anything else that might grow on my face. But I didn't. I showed it to Doug (he wasn't nearly as interested). I washed it down the sink.

Then I chuckled.

Remember Yesterday!

For the past couple of months now, I've been a bit obsessed with my seemingly accelerating passage of time toward "40". In a few weeks, I'll be 39. According to my six-year old son, I'm still two years away from 40, since I'm only 38. I like his math.

It's not the first time I've fussed over my age. "30" seemed like a big cross-over. Oh, to be "30" again. My skin was still fairly tight. The cottage cheese blemishes on my belly were barely visible -- of course only one child had been born by then. Those were the days when it was still fun to try on swimsuits. Now I resort to catalog purchases, only from Eddie Bauer who has this amazing technology of fitting not-completely-dumpy swimsuits anyone over the age of 35.

Mom told me a few months ago that "age is just a frame of mind". Easy for her to say -- she looks amazing at the age of 61. "Your mom is so cool." "She looks so young." "I love your Mom's hair!" "Grandma seems younger than you." And the kicker, "Are you Sandy's sister?" Oh sure, age is a frame of mind when you look fifteen years younger than your real age.

Needless to say, I've been practicing "The Secret" (Rhonda Byrnes) by telling myself that I do look young. It's tough when your children say things like, "What's that big line on your face?" "Well, Cole, it's my laugh lines!" "It doesn't look funny." Or when you can't shove that muffin top in those dang low-rider pants anymore. But I continue my quest. "I still look young. I still look young. I still look young. 38 IS young. Right?"

The other day I had lunch with a friend who is also getting close to the age of 40. She is very pretty and youthful. A few topics came up in our conversation that are defining to Generation X -- South Africa (anti-apartheid, Nelson Mandela, etc.), E.T. (yes, the movie), The Gap (yes, the store), etc. And guess what? After our lunch, I felt revived and, well, young! Maybe it was because my friend just plain looks young. Maybe it was because she's full of enthusiasm. Or, maybe it was because we connected! While we have different backgrounds, we lived through the same defining, historic events.

I have other good friends who are also classified as "Gen-X", and of course my husband and I are the same age. Too often we're busy chasing the Boomers' career pace or plugging into Gen Y's communication devices. And of course we're all running our kids to various activities to ensure they'll grow up to be well-rounded. All of those factors simply do not make me feel youthful -- it exhausts me.

So, perhaps the secret to feeling young is taking time to connect with those whom we share similar, generational viewpoints. Of course, my mother has a bazillion Boomers to connect with. We Gen X'ers must learn to seek each other out and "share" in order to keep a youthful frame of mind.

So, let me end another babbling blog with this thought. I took a picture of my ornamental lilac tree a couple of weeks ago. It only blooms for about a week, so during that week, I make sure to relish in the aroma and beauty while it lasts. Then, overnight, the blooms shrivel and dry up. It becomes merely an ornamental tree with dark green leaves.

And it is still lovely.