LJ Idol, Season 1, Week 1, "Jayus"
Wow. My first LJ Idol post in years.
My 49th birthday card from my son read: “Happy 49th birthday. You’re halfway to 98.” I was unimpressed. I may have felt 98 years old when I got out of bed in the morning, knees creaking, ankles making clickity noises, bladder straining to get to the bathroom in time, but halfway to 98? Jeepers, that’s old. Yes, there were some crow’s feet around my eyes, a dent more ridge than wrinkle in the centre of my forehead, blue veins and stretch marks like paint streaks on my breasts, but I was still in my 40s, not yet reached the aridity of 50, that grand and ancient age. Still a kid, really. 49. No big deal. Halfway to 98? I whacked my son’s head with some wrapping paper and got on with it like it didn’t matter. Pretended that what he’d said wasn’t in the least a bite, a sting with the stinger left in, that every day I didn’t look in the mirror at those crow’s feet, that deep wrinkle, wondering if I’d live till 98, realizing that I was becoming a relic. All year long it bugged me. Damned kid.
My fiftieth birthday last summer brought flowers, far too many gifts, dinner at a nice steakhouse, and my annual alcoholic binge, where I order a pina colada and feel drunken and giddy from an ounce of rum. It also brought a fresh card, pretty and floral on the outside, ghastly when opened. It read: “To the world’s best mother on her 50th birthday. You’re halfway to dead”.
It was a good thing I was sauced on that rum when I read it. Halfway to dead. Meant as a joke, of course, but oh, my heavens, did it attack my innards, my heart, those prickly things behind the eyes that tingle when you’re about to cry. Halfway to dead. It meant I had less than half a lifetime left to live, that old age and disease and decrepitude were just around the corner. I hadn’t accomplished so many of my life’s goals, and now I was going to die.
All this rushed through my head in seconds. We went home and ate too much cake, with a side-order of too much lactose-free ice cream, and I tried, in a haze of chocolate fudge and vanilla, to forget the message, to recapture lost feelings of immortality, but all that happened was a stomach ache.
The sting of the card wore off, and over the next few months, I learned to look at my 50th as an opportunity. There’s so much left to do. I don’t do bucket lists, except perhaps mentally, but I’ve decided that I can’t die just yet. I’ve not been to Venice or to Istanbul, or on an African safari. I’ve not held a grandchild yet. Nor have I been to a rescue shelter and chosen for myself a large shaggy dog, full of the intent to knock over all of my ornaments with broad strokes of his excitedly-waving tail. I haven’t learned how to make a garden thrive. I’ve not met a member of the British royal family. I’ve not read all the books in the world yet, nor become a world-famous author, or had my photographs in their own show at a gallery, attended by celebrities all anxious to have my art upon their walls. Daydreams and possibilities, they’re all still there, and I have a lot of living to do before I shake off this mortal coil. That card was a wake-up call, and I’m grateful for it.
My son turned 22 two weeks ago. I bought him a card, which expressed the love and pride I had in him, the true pleasure that it is to be his mother. After I had signed and added the hugs and kisses, I wrote “happy halfway to 44”. He shrugged it off until I pointed out the mortgage he’d have, the car loans, the moody teenagers borrowing his car and neglecting to put gas in it, the start of graying hair, a wrinkle or two, perhaps the arthritis and diabetes that runs in the family line. “I don’t think I like this halfway thing anymore”, he told me, and I’m glad, because I don’t know what 51 is halfway to, and don’t want it on a card. My hopes are that it’s halfway to the grand old age of 102, or halfway to heaven, or halfway to reincarnation in a loving family that may or may not own a yacht, but I don’t know. What I do know is that the possibilities are endless.
My 49th birthday card from my son read: “Happy 49th birthday. You’re halfway to 98.” I was unimpressed. I may have felt 98 years old when I got out of bed in the morning, knees creaking, ankles making clickity noises, bladder straining to get to the bathroom in time, but halfway to 98? Jeepers, that’s old. Yes, there were some crow’s feet around my eyes, a dent more ridge than wrinkle in the centre of my forehead, blue veins and stretch marks like paint streaks on my breasts, but I was still in my 40s, not yet reached the aridity of 50, that grand and ancient age. Still a kid, really. 49. No big deal. Halfway to 98? I whacked my son’s head with some wrapping paper and got on with it like it didn’t matter. Pretended that what he’d said wasn’t in the least a bite, a sting with the stinger left in, that every day I didn’t look in the mirror at those crow’s feet, that deep wrinkle, wondering if I’d live till 98, realizing that I was becoming a relic. All year long it bugged me. Damned kid.
My fiftieth birthday last summer brought flowers, far too many gifts, dinner at a nice steakhouse, and my annual alcoholic binge, where I order a pina colada and feel drunken and giddy from an ounce of rum. It also brought a fresh card, pretty and floral on the outside, ghastly when opened. It read: “To the world’s best mother on her 50th birthday. You’re halfway to dead”.
It was a good thing I was sauced on that rum when I read it. Halfway to dead. Meant as a joke, of course, but oh, my heavens, did it attack my innards, my heart, those prickly things behind the eyes that tingle when you’re about to cry. Halfway to dead. It meant I had less than half a lifetime left to live, that old age and disease and decrepitude were just around the corner. I hadn’t accomplished so many of my life’s goals, and now I was going to die.
All this rushed through my head in seconds. We went home and ate too much cake, with a side-order of too much lactose-free ice cream, and I tried, in a haze of chocolate fudge and vanilla, to forget the message, to recapture lost feelings of immortality, but all that happened was a stomach ache.
The sting of the card wore off, and over the next few months, I learned to look at my 50th as an opportunity. There’s so much left to do. I don’t do bucket lists, except perhaps mentally, but I’ve decided that I can’t die just yet. I’ve not been to Venice or to Istanbul, or on an African safari. I’ve not held a grandchild yet. Nor have I been to a rescue shelter and chosen for myself a large shaggy dog, full of the intent to knock over all of my ornaments with broad strokes of his excitedly-waving tail. I haven’t learned how to make a garden thrive. I’ve not met a member of the British royal family. I’ve not read all the books in the world yet, nor become a world-famous author, or had my photographs in their own show at a gallery, attended by celebrities all anxious to have my art upon their walls. Daydreams and possibilities, they’re all still there, and I have a lot of living to do before I shake off this mortal coil. That card was a wake-up call, and I’m grateful for it.
My son turned 22 two weeks ago. I bought him a card, which expressed the love and pride I had in him, the true pleasure that it is to be his mother. After I had signed and added the hugs and kisses, I wrote “happy halfway to 44”. He shrugged it off until I pointed out the mortgage he’d have, the car loans, the moody teenagers borrowing his car and neglecting to put gas in it, the start of graying hair, a wrinkle or two, perhaps the arthritis and diabetes that runs in the family line. “I don’t think I like this halfway thing anymore”, he told me, and I’m glad, because I don’t know what 51 is halfway to, and don’t want it on a card. My hopes are that it’s halfway to the grand old age of 102, or halfway to heaven, or halfway to reincarnation in a loving family that may or may not own a yacht, but I don’t know. What I do know is that the possibilities are endless.