My birthday toast at 50th gathering with friends:
I recently read that 40 is the new-old, where midlife is still novel. At 60 you’re legit old; well on your way to senior citizen status and all those amazing discounts. 50 is in the middle; it’s a both/and. My personal both/and looks like being a room parent for my grade-schooler and navigating pre-menopause; feeling too young to be old but too old to be young; When I think about it like this, it feels captivating, like having an arial view of my life, with the past and future in my purview.
I’ve learned a great deal about myself since my 20’s. I am more self-aware. For example: in my 20’s I was OBSESSED with the freedom riders. Maybe it was being an idealistic newbie to the south but I often wondered what I’d do in cultural and political chaos. Would I ride the busses, sit at the soda shops, go to jail for the cause of Civil Rights? I’d fantasize about such things, Angela the Activist. Now, after living through a pandemic, a gangster for a president and impending planetary disaster, I know exactly what I’ll do when faced with catastrophe: practically nothing. At the end of the day, I’m relatively conflict avoidant and although I have strong reactivity when it comes to injustice, it’s mostly internal, venting with friends or reposting some profound words (that I didn’t write) on Instagram. I give money to causes I care about. When I remember, I take my own bags into the grocery stores. But for better or worse, never have I ever written a letter to a congressman. Really, for worse.
As I write this, I feel like should I erase this bit but I keep writing because regardless of how I feel about my activism, or lack of, there’s less hiding and shape-shifting as we get older. I’m not a front-line activist...the sway of my temperament outweighs my ideal self on this point. And that’s okay. I’m still good. Self-esteem doesn’t flatline as easily. I feel like less of an imposter, in part because I’ve lived long enough to accumulate small accomplishments and to give back in small ways. Everything is just smaller. Small is the new big, or as Kristen and I often reflect these days: Go big or go home? Home sounds pretty good. In moments of near despair my reach for hope or optimism is less grandiose as well. Despair used to take me to existential questions about Gods existence. Now, if I’m feeling down, I might go read one of my raving airbnb reviews and remember somebody out there thinks I’m an amazing decorator. Or I’ll remember a card or a kind work I’ve received from a former client. I’ll remember how my 6-yr-old teenage son still sleeps with his blanky and tells me he loves me everyday, and that will brighten my mood a bit, because it’s actually true. He does love me. I love him. I love all of you and I know you love me back. That’s just how it works. No games, no gimmicks. No pretense. The most real things in life are not that extravagant. We love each other on this beautiful night. Tonight I get to be celebrated and then I step out of the spotlight and celebrate one of you. The equation is both sacred and simple. Simple is the new profound.
In my arial view of the world tonight and this year and maybe even this decade, where I get to be old and young, this is what I wish for: to value ordinary things, to enjoy and accept people for exactly who they are, to be a good mom, a good friend, a good citizen, to watch my donut intake, and to remember how palpable love is when friends die and when babies are born —and to let that kind of generous, gentle and effortless love, be the long conversation that I have with aging.