Perhaps I Should Buy a Purple Bathing Suit?
I am turning 50, which I can hardly believe. Aging is not fun, I do not yet hate my neck, (http://thatisallfornow.com/?p=3610) though I imagine that is coming, but I do hate that in the last few months glasses have become mandatory, if I want to order off of a menu or read my email. I also hate my purple legs – I have enough broken veins that my thighs look like road maps. It is funny, I have always worn a bathing suit, regardless of what I weighed at the moment, I love swimming and I love the beach; but my purple legs have made me self-conscious about wearing a bathing suit. I can hardly bear the thought of never swimming in day light again.
I have had trouble adjusting to the 21st Century. In truth, I barely fit the 20th Century, well at least not the second half of it, the half I was born into. Everywhere we are told that the anti-dote to aging is staying current, and learning new things, which I suppose one might say is part of staying current. I am a news junky, though all of it seems bad, of late; thus I am at least up on current affairs. But what of those countless “celebrities” from reality television and tabloids – more often than not, I have never heard of them – and do not seem to care enough to Google them. I suppose I may remain at a loss. It is too much work to attempt to understand why these people should matter to me, as they are not looking for a cure for cancer or a solution to the conflict in the Middle East. What are they accomplishing other than being famous for their fifteen minutes?
Ah yes, that is it. What are they accomplishing; what have I accomplished? Fifty is one of those milestones which force us to reflect on the meaning of our life, our accomplishments and thus our failures. Is this where I thought my life would be at fifty? What did I grow up to be? I have grown up, regardless of how we now spin age – fifty is the new thirty – okay, but even if that were true, thirty is supposed to be grown up anyway. Taking stock of our life is not easy; the process forces us to confront our own mortality. No matter what we did or did not do, no matter what we wanted to do or still want to do, the fact is at fifty we are running out of time to do it – not to mention energy and physical well-being. Time does have its ways of reminding us of the things we would rather forget.
Time passes quickly and the wasted hours, days, and years catch up with us; cruelly reminding us of how we squandered moments which are now forever lost. I am convinced that taking stock of our life is what leads us to a mid-life crisis. There are people who seem to live their entire life without stopping to reflect; and oddly they seem very happy. I do sometimes wish I could be one of those people who are always happy.
When compiling the list of regrets, repeatedly it is the undone which overwhelms. Yes, there are things I have done to people or said to them which I deeply regret; but I do not regret most of what I did with my own life. It is the things I did not do which I regret. The chances I did not take, the caution I did not throw to the wind. I do not want to wait for 80 to walk the Great Wall of China. What if I do not make it to 80? What if I can no longer walk at 80? What if the Chinese government decides the Wall has had too many visitors, and limits access when I am 80?
I should have gone to Egypt when I was in Israel, and made my way to Jordan to see Petra. I was already there, stupidly traveling alone, spending money I did not have. Why did I let a little chest infection turn me around?
Of course, if I had not let the little chest infection send me back to the states, I would not have walked around JFK International Airport, debating whether or not I could start a new life in New York with a thousand dollars – the answer was no. I would not have decided that I felt too lousy to go back to Los Angeles, where my few meager possessions were stored in my sister’s garage, and I had no place to rest my head. Nor would I have decided to head to Columbus, where my Mother and other sister were, who I felt certain would have someplace for me to rest. Which of course means that once I got over my chest infection, and all which that trip to Europe and Israel had brought into my life, I decided to meet my sister for lunch, which led me to meeting Kate.
I guess the question at hand may be would I trade the pyramids and Petra for Kate? That is the classic mid-life crisis: What have we given up? With time running out, because it is, what have we given up to be where we are, to share our lives with the people that we share it with, to do the work we feel compelled to do?
Both the pyramids and Petra were here long before I arrived, and I imagine will be here long after I have gone; but the time we have with the people we love is finite. Christians believe in heaven and the eternity of our soul; it is a wonderful belief and I could hardly imagine being able to endure the pain of death without the hope of resurrection – nevertheless, what do we do with the time we are given on earth?
I so wish I had traveled in the Levant and North Africa in the 1930’s dressed in white gauze, with a large straw hat. I know, evil colonialism, but I have read too many books and seen too many movies to not long for the romanticism of that by gone era. However, my life is now in the 21st century, and I did not make it to the pyramids and Petra; though I did find someone to share my life with, someone with whom I may yet venture to the pyramids and Petra, or maybe the Great Wall of China. Will it matter if I never see any of those places?
Ah, the conundrum of the mid-life crisis. The trades we have made to survive and hopefully thrive. The compromise of shelter verses freedom, money verses time, fitting in verses individuality, honesty verses simplicity, and dreams verses reality. What a bad idea taking stock seems to be – more questions than answers.
But the other night, as I lay in bed, with the fans buzzing, and a Michael Bublé CD playing, I realized that I was listening to contemporary music (I know he is singing songs from the 1940’s, but at least I am listening to him and not Dean Martin); and reading a book written in the 21st Century. Perhaps there is hope for me in this century, and with my mid-life crisis. Perhaps I should simply buy a purple bathing suit to match my legs and head to the pool, hoping Kate will join me in a bit. We can play Marco Polo, which we still do play, and reminisce about all of the adventures we have shared thus far and maybe plan a new one or two. That is all for now.
