Birthdays

Today I am 45 years old.  I knew that my birthday was quickly approaching when all of my friends started sending me cards.  My friends at the Sunglass Hut, my friends at the Vittoria Spa, even my friends at Knead a Massage (although I’ve only been there once) sent me a nice birthday card with a special offer.   My daughter pondered why “I even bother to celebrate my birthday at this point.”  This from the little blonde demon who plans her birthdays six months in advance!  I have to admit, I’m not terribly excited about this birthday and birthdays in general seem to have diminishing returns.  I picture myself standing in the middle of the see-saw looking back at my early forties and teetering on the edge of fifties.  Madly pushing weight on both legs back and forth like I did as a kid to see who got bumped off.  

A while back, I paid $14.95 to post my mug on the Internet and view myself in a variety of different hairstyles and colors.  Somehow, my female brain believes that all of the woes of turning 45 will be resolved with a new hairdo.  I will look and feel younger, spend less time styling my unruly mop, and in the process -- forget that half my life is over.  On the bright side, my kids are very supportive of the change and both chose the same new hairstyle and color for me.  They don’t think there is anything erratic about my behavior; I’m just playing some games on the web. 

My husband seemed to take this last act in stride.  “You’re crazy” was all he said as I emailed picture after picture of me sporting a chestnut bob, eggplant waves, or an auburn shag.  He insists that I’m crazy several times a week, so this was nothing new. Yet another friend said she would continue to like me no matter what my “frickin” hair looked like.  This of course leads me to another revelation that I’ve had as I get older.  Women were meant to live with other women.  If my husband had made this type of comment (or perhaps worded even more thoughtfully like “your beauty comes from within, I will love you no matter what your hair looks like, or how fat your ass gets, or saggy your neck...”) I probably wouldn’t have madly tracked down my hair stylist for an emergency appointment after my online recon mission. 

One of my friends looks forward to the day when all of our husbands move on to their trophy wives leaving us divorcees to live together in a blissful state of female utopia. Painful hair removal, anti-wrinkle injections and marathon workouts will be things of the past.  We will all be fat, lazy, hairy, and happy.

I still feel like I’m 28 years old most of the time (except when I’m climbing royal street on my bike, trying to exceed that 5^th mile on the treadmill, or consuming that third cocktail).  If I could turn back the clock, that’s where I would set the alarm.  I was confident, successful, happy in my job, I lived in the city, I ate healthily, worked out moderately, my skin looked clear and non-wrinkled, children had not yet wreaked havoc on my body, yanked away my memory, and created fine lines around my eyes.   28 was a damn good year. 

The twenties are all about finding yourself and defining what you want to do and who you want to share your life with.  The thirties are about taking care of that person and the little people you create with him.  In your fifties you are back to taking care of people, most likely your parents.  In your 60’s, you’ve got to take care of yourself again, but it’s no longer about manicures and facials, it’s colonoscopies and cardiograms.  There is a lot of pressure to make the forties a truly superb decade, one with no regrets.  Thus the great buildup, the incredible pressure to reinvent, rejuvenate, re-evaluate, and if necessary re-do. 

I keep wondering why my husband didn’t have any of these issues when he turned 45?  He just breezed right through it! He seemed happy, fulfilled and confident.  He didn’t buy any night creams or spend hours at the gym.  He didn’t even contemplate a facelift. 

Then I performed the old compare-and-contrast exercise that I learned in college.  First, he believes that he will live to be 120 (with the help of the human growth hormone) thus placing his mid-life point at 60 – no need to worry for another 15 years at least (he is blissfully unaware of the trans-fats I inject into his dinners).  Second, he has accomplished many of the dreams on his list (with support from that other person in her 30’s that patiently followed him around the country and watched his triathlons), and third – there isn’t the huge societal pressure on him to look ten years younger than he is.  Women will still be attracted to him well into his 70’s.  What, in God’s name, does he have to worry about? 

The optimistic side of me (those that know me well will agree, my optimistic side rarely reveals itself) says I should be grateful for what I have accomplished during the first half of my life and modestly adjust my goals for the future.   I should be thankful for the good genes that I got from my parents, and reserve hope that I can alter or buy new ones if things take a turn for the worse.  I should smile (even though that will create the need for Restylane in my smile lines) and take every day that comes to me, enjoy the wonderful children that I’ve nurtured, and look forward to tomorrow.  Maybe even 50 years of tomorrows.  And above all, maintain faith that some scientist will discover a replacement for Botox that lasts years instead of months.