Tag Archives: middle age

Choosing travel companions

When I started this blog, I was on the precipice of turning 50. Now, almost four years later, I’m approaching my mid-50s. Anyone past the age of 40 will tell you they feel no different than they did when they were 30 (wiser, perhaps). This is true. My psyche doesn’t feel middle-aged, whatever that’s supposed to feel like. I just feel like, well, me. That is until I went on a trip overseas.

I recently returned from a rather rigorous trip through central Europe. Four cities in four countries in 8 days. It was overzealous to say the least. Amsterdam, Berlin, Prague and Krakow. No more than a day and a half in any city. Lots of time spent on trains, trams, subways and planes. If anyone asked me, I would tell them I love to travel. Love seeing new places, trying new food, torturing a foreign language. Yet, this trip I was aware something was different. I was afraid.

Be aware that there was no moment in which we were in any danger. If we were lost, it was for a few minutes at most because my friend and I were both adept at figuring out transit systems and unafraid to ask for help (Note: never underestimate the value of good wayfinding signage). Yet, I was riddled with anxiety the entire time. How would we navigate the next leg? (we always did) How would we manage to talk to people who didn’t speak English? (we always managed) How would we manage?! (we more than managed). Naturally, the question I asked myself was, “What the hell’s wrong with me?”

And, while there are many things wrong with me, on this account one of the variables is surely age. I wonder…have I lost the confidence and surety that comes with youth? Has it been replaced with the self-doubt and fear of the unknown that comes with knowing too much about what’s possible. All I know is that I could barely get out of my own way to be in the present, to fully enjoy the experience. Each hotel became the new safe place.

2018-03-30 18.08.48And here I was with my fearless 63-year-old friend, who would be continuing on travelling by herself after I returned home from Poland. If she was afraid, she never let on. For her, each challenge was part of the adventure.

If I ever was adventurous, it seems to have left me. I’ve become cautious and careful. Serious and circumspect. Is this indeed “me?” Have I evolved or devolved into this Bilbo Baggins of a person who never wants to leave her Hobbit Home or venture beyond the Shire. Of course, Bilbo eventually did for fear life would pass him by. He adventured, in many respects, against his will. It was only in retrospect that he fully realized the value of being “there and back again.”

Perhaps I’m just out of practice. Are we like swords that simply dull from lack of brandishing? Does one adventure beget more adventures? Do we forget to live if we’re not paying attention. Do we mistake breathing for life itself?

What I know for sure is that fear is dreadful travelling companion. It’s best left at home with the bills and the taxes. But fear will stowaway in your luggage and your pockets uninvited if you’re not vigilant. Courage, on the other hand, sits politely waiting for the word to come aboard. There’s only room for one of them on the voyage. I will not leave courage languishing at home again.

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How I feel about 50

Everyone has one of THOSE birthdays. The one birthday that, for whatever reason, hurts your feelings. For some it’s 25 or 30. For others it’s 40…or 70. Some harbour resentment for odd birthdays in between the milestones: 37, 43, 26. Eventually, we all run into a number that makes us feel the Christmas dinner weight of our mortality, the hornet’s nest fragility of our existence. We all eventually run into that birthday where we realize…we’re going to die. We realize it’s not a theory. We realize we’re not exempt. We realize it will be a surprise (more or less).

For me, that birthday is 50. And it’s bearing down on me. In fact, if 50 were a person, it would be talking to me like this:

Now, naturally, everyone else is thrilled that my birthday is coming up. They’re asking me what I’m doing. What item I’ll be crossing off my bucket list. What special, once in a lifetime thing I’ll be doing. At the very least, WHEN’S THE PARTY!? Normally, I love my birthday. I lovingly refer to it as Lisa-Fest and remind people how many shopping weeks they have left.

I have spent weeks trying to figure out how to celebrate this huge milestone…until  it dawned on me. How can I celebrate when I’m grieving? Now, please, spare me the “at least you’re alive” and “you’re only as old as you feel” crap. Remember…everyone has that one birthday that hits them like a kick in the ass with a speed skate.

I don’t want to pretend to be happy about turning 50 to make you more comfortable. I don’t want to pretend to feel happy about turning 50 to avoid being unhappy about turning 50. To quote the brilliant and cogent Carmen Spagnola, “Fuck Happiness.” (Follow the link to her video. It will change your life.)

I want to be unhappy about turning 50 until I’m no longer unhappy about it. I want to be unhappy about turning 50, so I can be happy about turning 51. Because here’s the thing…and don’t let anyone try to sell you a truckload of horse shit…when you’re 50, you’re no longer young. TRUTH BOMB. TRUTH. BOMB. I’m not saying I’m elderly. But…my. youth.is.over. done. kaput. finis. To suggest otherwise is a lie, a platitude, subterfuge, patronizing horse shit.

So, pardon me all to fuck if I take a moment to grieve that. I’m old enough not just to be someone’s mother, but their grandmother. So, yeah, the curtain has come down on my youth. The music icons of my teens and 20s are dead or grey haired, pot-bellied, jowly grandparents. Some of them have aged gracefully (Peter Gabriel, Annie Lennox, any of the Go-Gos pretty much). Others are just sad and pathetic (Adam Ant,  David Lee Roth, Axl Rose). I will soon work with people who were not alive when Princess Diana was killed. I remember how smug I felt when I told people at work I wasn’t alive when Kennedy was shot. They couldn’t imagine how that was possible. Now I know how they felt.

Our youth is like $100 life gives us to spend. And it seems like all the money in the world. I can tell you I spend some of it like a drunken sailor, thinking there was plenty more where that came from. I gave a chunk of that allowance away to people who didn’t deserve a dime and I should have given more of myself to others. I hoarded that allowance selfishly. And now here I am and the $100 I got for my youth is all spent. No do-overs. It is what it is, as they say. I’m no different than anyone else, though. Everyone will go through their books and do their own accounting. They’ll assess how well they spent their youth allowance. I could have done better. I could have done worse. Doesn’t matter. It’s all spent.

So, I’m going to grieve that time. And when I’m done I’m going to go back to the Bank of Life and pick up my next pay cheque…apparently my $100 middle age allowance is in….and I really need to pay attention to how I’m going to spend it.