My typical reaction to a milestone birthday is a tsunami of depressive symptoms, punctuated by existential angst, garnished with self-pity.
I coped with my thirtieth birthday by submerging myself in a vat of Merlot.
I dealt with my fortieth by an uncharacteristic, inexplicable shopping splurge.
“You went shopping,” asked my baffled husband. “You never go shopping.”
“I felt compelled to shop,” I confessed. “I can’t explain why.”
“You went shopping. You felt compelled to shop. And you bought a Matisse lithograph.”
“It seemed to make sense at the time.”
Milestone or no, my birthdays have left a lot to be desired over the past few decades. For one thing, they pale in comparison with the elaborate extravaganzas of my childhood. Did I mention I was an only child? Or that my mother’s creativity in party planning was limited only by the resources available in our town of 5000? Let’s just say that my birthdays were an eagerly anticipated event on our elementary school calendar. As I recall, one year someone tried scalping a couple of invitations and all hell broke loose.
These days, short of having Cirque de Soleil choreograph and perform something in honour of my birthday, I’m bound to be a tad disappointed. This is the excuse my spouse gives when explaining why we don’t do anything.
“If we go out, you’ll just be disappointed,” he reasons. “It won’t be good enough.” This is the curse of being married to a perfectionist: ‘Good enough’ is very, very rare. And if something won’t be ‘good enough’, why bother?
Besides, it’s not like we can throw a party. For one thing, my friends are
far-flung across the globe and not easily summoned. For those within driving distance, there is a different impediment. Alas, my birthday coincides with American Thanksgiving. (For those of you who live elsewhere, I hasten to explain that this is a huge family holiday involving mandatory plane travel, days of preparations, excessive eating and unavoidable football watching followed by a frenzy of premature Christmas shopping). There is no time or inclination during the four-day Thanksgiving weekend that allows for much in the way of a birthday celebration.
Oh sure, I get the odd token card or phone call. My buddy Debra reliably appears at my door bearing flowers, gifts and heartfelt enthusiasm. But otherwise, my birthday is typically a non-event.
During milestone years, having a birthday in the eleventh month of the calendar year has its own unique challenge. Basically I have to grapple with the impending age change over and over again as my friends go through the process during the intervening months. Picture a slow-moving steamroller, pointed my way, plowing down my friends en route.
And milestone years are a particularly nasty reminder of -- there’s no other way to say it -- aging.
It doesn’t help that I live in L.A. where aging is punishable by ostracism. Where plastic surgery is an amateur sport. Where real housewives make the Real Housewives look like fossils.
Do I really want to draw attention to my age in this milieu? I do not. Nor do I have the wherewithal to put together a special social event to advertise my exact decrepitude.
And 2011 is proving to be a particularly challenging year for me, in general. A few months ago, my mother passed away unexpectedly. My forty-ninth year has been grief-stricken, sleep-deprived and otherwise difficult as I do my best to manage her estate from 3000 miles away.
You can see why it’s odd, indeed, that I’m hurtling towards fifty and feeling fine about it. Actually looking forward to it a bit.
Why? Because I’m approaching it differently this time. Realizing the futility of having a terrific twenty-four hours, I’m not even trying. Instead, rather than focusing on the day, I’m shifting my attention to the year.
Specifically, I’m giving myself the gift of at least fifty frolics during my fiftieth year. I plan on using my fiftieth birthday as an excuse to have a whole lot of fun and to indulge in the things I love. And in doing so, I’m committing to making my fiftieth year on this planet my best ever.
If you’re turning fifty, I encourage you to do the same.
I'd love to hear about how you handle milestone birthdays. Tell me about it in the comments section -- or message me.
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