Pushing 40

I don't know if there's an official definition of "pushing" a decade, but at 37 I can definitely feel 40 looming just over the horizon.

I used to work with a sour-lemon-face woman who was forever warning me how horrible it is to be over 40. To quote her exactly, "After you turn 40, everything goes to shit." By which she meant one's health and looks. And for her, sadly, it was true. But she was a smoker, a heavy drinker, and a fast-food junkie. Not exactly a recipe for eternal youth.

I'm feeling OK about the approach of 40, so far. I'm in a good place in my life.

Most people would look to their kids as a major point of pride. As a voluntary non-parent, one of my big achievements has been to overcome my insecurities about not having any. I'm not 100% bulletproof. Sometimes regrets or shame or the expectations of others sneak up on me and get me down. But that's rare nowadays. I don't struggle with it daily, as I used to. I am as sure as I can be that it's the right choice for me.

My marriage is superb. It didn't get to be that way overnight. There have been plenty of disagreements, power struggles, and misunderstandings along the way. But these days, we're pretty much copacetic.

I love my job. Truly, I do. Despite all my bitching here and on Twitter, about stress and chaos, and sleepless nights. It's socially satisfying, intellectually challenging, financially rewarding, and almost never boring. Right now we're going through some growing pains, which will probably carry on until at least the beginning of the summer, but my team is fantastic and the stress is actually having the effect of bringing my staff together more closely than before.

I love being a manager. I'm responsible for the supervision of 10 people, plus I work with the managers of other departments to solve big-picture problems. I've been here long enough that all but one member of my team is someone I hired myself. The one person I didn't hand-pick is a good person and a good worker. Over the years, the nasty folks have all left or been let go. Those who remain are people whom I consider to be a Work Family.

All in all, I feel that I have all my ducks in a row. So I can probably skip the whole mid-life crisis drama. I don't feel the need to go running out to buy a fast car, or go travel the world, or register on Ashley-Madison. I don't have anything more to prove at this point. I'm good.

Assumptions of my age which have taken place over the past week:

32: From my newest hire, who is himself 30 years old. I mentioned the whole "pushing 40" thing and his eyebrows shot up, so I believe his guess was probably genuine and not just an ass-kissing tactic. Well, maybe he knocked a couple of years off his actual estimate... I guess I'll never know for sure.*

27: A woman who is around 50, who goes to my church. I'm thinking that the church people probably that assume anyone who hasn't had children "yet" must be under 30.

21: My neighbour, who admittedly is legally blind. I'm not sure what she based her guess on. I have an orange purse, which apparently figured into this calculation. It's a perfectly normal purse which just happens to be a lovely shade of deep orange. Nothing else unusual about it. But when I was talking with the woman who thought I was 27, telling her my actual age, my neighbour was very suprised. She puckered up her face and said "My goodness, I thought you were 21! Especially with that purse!" I assure you that no self-respecting 21-year-old would wear that purse. It's much too mature.

*I expect WIGSF to say something scathing on this point. Go ahead, give it your best shot.

Zaidy's Party

Sunday was an absolutely gorgeous day.  For a chance to walk in the sun, I took public transit to my grandfather's 96th birthday party instead of bumming a ride or taking a cab.  The trip takes ten minutes from my door to his door by car.  I figured allowing 45 minutes for public transit would be plenty.

The stupid bus sat idling for around 25 minutes before finally closing its doors and farting off towards Bathurst St.

I arrived at my grandparents' apartment just as the family lit the candles on the birthday cake.  Just in time to sing Happy Birthday, which is the most important part of any birthday party.  I would have felt bad if I'd missed out on that.

My grandparents’ tiny, one-bedroom apartment in an assisted-living seniors' residence was cram-packed with people, furniture, and food.  My father had even brought the dog.  Chairs had been dragged from the common area into the apartment to provide enough seating for everyone, and one tiny table, supplemented by some folding TV trays, were so loaded that the rims of plates hung over the table-edges on all four sides.

There was a surfeit of goodies. Lemon pie, marble cake, two types of cookies, potato chips, several boxes of chocolate bonbons, ice cream, rice dream, and on and on. My grandmother was dispensing tea all around, and plastic tumblers of sparkling water. There was a festive busy-ness in the air. Various conversations split and merged. My grandfather, more lucid than I’ve seen him in a while, cracked jokes that had the whole room laughing. We held on to the backs of chairs as we crawled over other chairs to reach the people we hadn’t hugged yet. The dog trotted here and there with her tail a-waggle, snuffling at the rug for crumbs.

It was good to see the family together, having a good time. That apartment must get awfully quiet when it’s just my grandparents at home. My grandfather, I’m told, sleeps a lot. And when he’s awake, he’s not able to hold much of a conversation. He repeats a few phrases, and the same questions, over and over. It’s sweet when he tells us for the hundredth time that he can’t decide if my grandmother is a honey bunny or a lovey dovey, but I know that she craves more conversational variety.

After a couple of hours it was time for everyone to get back into their cars and drive home – which for one cousin is as far as Peterborough. Leftovers were packed away and the extra chairs were dragged back out into the hall. I patted my grandfather’s soft, snowy hair, and kissed his cheek. His brilliantly blue eyes held each of us as he said goodbye, and told us how proud he is of us, and how much joy we bring to him. He tells it in Yiddish – shepping nachas is what he calls it (where the “ch” is that throat-clearing sound that doesn’t exist in English).

What a man. Ninety-six! If I’m to take after him, I’d better save up a lot of money for my retirement. It’s going to have to last a long time.

Can't Wait for Spring

You all heard me complain about how middle age is sneaking up on me.

I'm of two minds when it comes to the concept of age-appropriate clothing. On one hand, I don't want to want to raise eyebrows by dressing too young, especially at work. On the other hand, I don't want to go to the other extreme and bore myself into an early grave with tasteful neutrals.

Just to make sure I still have something fun to wear on the weekends, I went out and bought myself this gear from the teen department. Can't hardly wait for the warm weather so that I can swan around town in my:



... T-shirt with bears camping out in sleeping bags. One of the bears is roasting a marshmallow over the campfire.
And my...



... ballet flat sneakers, which are covered in rainbows, hearts, stars, butterflies, and lightening bolts. Very mature, yes? No? And my...



... short-sleeved, robin's egg blue hoodie, covered in bluebells. You can't see from the photo, but each and every little bluebell blossom has a wee little happy face on it.

I'm only paid to act my age on weekdays. The rest of the time, I plan to regress shamelessly.

Aging Ungracefully

I always swore that I wouldn't fight the aging process. I was under the illusion that I could accept it gracefully. Why did I think that I would be exempt from the feelings that everyone goes through?

Some things are easy to disguise. A few silver hairs disappear with the help of artificial colour. Teeth can be whitened. Spider veins can be covered up. (I no longer reveal my legs above mid-calf.)

But there's a slight crinkliness around my eyes now that can't be hidden. My whole face is starting to change. I'm not a believer in unnecessary surgery or over-priced cosmetics, so I'm going to have to get used to it. I'm crossing the threshold into middle age.

It's my goal to have my shit totally together by the time I'm 40. There's a certain kind of woman I admire, who has a few lines in her face, who has put up with enough nonsense in her life and is no longer willing to submit. She has a solid core of self-assurance. She doesn't indulge in girlish drama. That's who I want to be.

I'm getting there. A few more years and a few more laugh lines...

How accepting are you of your aging process? Have you had to face it yet?