Turning Fifty

I've always used birthdays to evaluate how my life is progressing:  what changes I'd made over the last year, and over my life in general.

Yesterday, I'd turned fifty.

I had not liked what I'd found.

I'd had the usual: husband and two kids.  Ben and Sarah both had families now, and Fred had died of a sudden heart attack four years ago, at only 47 years of age.  In the early days of our marriage, after the first thrill of young love had faded, I'd sometimes wished he'd drop dead.  But over time, we'd grown to understand each other.  He'd become my best friend.  And then my wish had came true.

Yesterday morning, as I sat evaluating the past year, I realized that nothing had happened.  And I do mean nothing.  Unless you count 104 loads of laundry, 52 trips to the grocery store, and 1095 meals cooked and ate, mostly alone, as accomplishments. 

Life was no longer enjoyable.  I felt like I was just passing time, waiting to die.  Pretty pathetic, seeing as at least a third of my life still stretched before me.

It wasn't that I missed Fred, or even empty nest syndrome.  The emptiness I felt had nothing to do others, but everything to do with myself.

I thought of the teenager I'd once been: energetic and wild, tearing through life with unbridled passion.  When I'd met Fred, I'd thrown myself into our love with that same zest.

But the years had changed me.  I'd had to tone down, to discipline myself  The kids had needed a mom who could keep a regular schedule, not a free spirit who stayed up looking at the stars all night and forgot meals half the time. 

And so I'd had to let that girl go.

And now I was alone.  It wasn't the absence of others that I missed, but the absence of me. A large part of my life was past, I was just sitting and wasting the rest of it. 

I needed to find myself again.

I tried to remember what my goals had been, but I couldn't.  I had loved life.  What was it that I had loved?

A picture of that girl, scribbling madly in a notebook, drifted into my head.  That was right, writing.  I'd used to have so many stories in my head that I couldn't write them down fast enough.  But after the kids were born, I'd been too busy to keep it up.

I tried to think of a story, but it seemed like something in my brain had atrophied.  Maybe I needed some practice.  Did the local community college offer writing classes?  I pictured myself sitting in a classroom, surrounded by teenagers staring at me disdainfully.  Well, night classes, then.

What else had I enjoyed doing?  I pictured the girl again, swaying to the rhythm of a fast-paced song.  No way was I going to a night club! Besides, I wasn't sure if that rap stuff they listened to nowadays even qualified as music.

Hm...I'd always wanted to learn ballroom dancing, and I knew they offered adult classes at a nearby dancing school .  I doubted I'd have to worry about too many teenagers taking ballroom dance.  I could really do this!

I hadn't quite realized it, but I was starting to find me again.

And so, here I was today, a not-quite-old lady of fifty years and one day, re-evaluating not where my life had been, but where it was going.

I was signed up for an online writing class, and was already excitedly writing down story ideas that seemed to pop into my head every minute. 

One quick phone call, and I was all set for the ballroom dancing lessons.  I'd pay and fill out a form the night of the first class.

I even went through my wardrobe, ruthlessly culling anything I didn't love.  I was shocked at how many items I'd kept because I'd felt they were something an adult lady should wear.  Out went all the tasteful skirts, slacks, and blouses; I ended up with mostly jeans and knit tops.  Only my favorites.

And I'd decided I was going to Disney World, by myself.  I wasn't quite sure if I could afford it, but it didn't matter.  I was going.  I'd figure out a way.  We'd taken the kids once when they were young, but I'd hardly seen anything.  I'd spent the whole time doling out snacks, breaking up arguments and listening to “Mom-my, it's so hottttttt.”.  I'd always wanted to go back and really see the place, or “experience the magic,” as the ads say.  I grinned as I pictured myself wearing mouse ears.

I'd thought I was gone forever, and twenty-four hours later, I was back. The face in the mirror may not have been that teenager anymore, but my soul was. 

Life wasn't going to be about existing anymore, I was going to live.