As I was listening in to an insanely long and completely pointless conference call this afternoon—one that had absolutely nada to do with my job—my gaze wandered to the laceless Converse tennis shoes propped up on the coffee table in front of me, and my thoughts followed my eyes.
Cute shoes, I thought. But do they really belong on my feet? At this age, can I still pull off this fun, carefree choice in footwear? Do young, hipster kids giggle amongst themselves and roll their eyes when I walk by? God knows that I’ve questioned people’s judgment when I’ve seen certain clothing choices. Am I guilty of the same fashion folly? Maybe they look at me and think, “Pretty cool kicks for an older lady.” (Something tells me, though, that hipsters would never use the terms “cool” and “kicks.” I really AM showing my age.) I guess the most unsettling possibility is that they don’t even notice the shoes—or notice me—because I’ve reached that magical age of invisible irrelevance. Ah, middle age … how silently and quickly you’ve managed to sneak up on me!
I don’t know. When I bought these shoes six months ago, I wasn’t feeling all that middle aged. I certainly thought I was young enough to get away with sporting them. And I’ve worn them many, many times since—to the mall, to the office, to the grocery store—without ever wondering if I should’ve gone with a more sensible pump or flat. But that changed today.
I think what I saw when I looked at my feet this afternoon has a lot to do with what I’ve been seeing when I look in the mirror these days. Something is different. And it seems to have happened so gosh-darned quickly. Sure, I see crows feet around the old eyes. And those creases that form when I raise my eyebrows no longer disappear when I lower them. Darn it! But this is really nothing new. Those pesky little lines have been with me for a few years now. No, this is something else entirely.
You know how the moon is this soft, radiant, dreamy thing that joins with the stars to entertain our eyes when the sun goes down? It’s hard to fathom that the moon is actually nothing but a gray, pock-marked rock floating out there in space. But really, that’s all that it is without the sun to light it up every evening— dull and uninspiring.
Dull and uninspiring. That's what I think and see when I look at and reflect on myself in this, my 35th year on this planet. Up until fairly recently, I've always had someone or something else to light me up--family, friends, my job, youth. But the older I get, the more I realize that all of that goes away and you're really only left with yourself. And when it's just you, and the mirror, and that thing called The Truth, is there still any light there?
Put a different way … when you finally reach the destination on the map that you’ve crafted for yourself your whole life, how do you feel? Do you find comfort in knowing that you’ve made it, that you’re established, that you have the spouse/ the house/ the paycheck/the weekend social circle … or do you find yourself thinking, “Now what?” or worse, “Is this all there is?”
Is this all there is? Getting up at roughly the same time every morning, letting the dogs out for their morning “business,” making coffee, eating cereal, sitting down at the laptop, taking calls, putting out fires, sending e-mails, eating dinner, numbing the mind with ridiculous television, folding laundry, sweeping floors, turning in, getting up, doing it all over again …
Excuse me while I grow up and come to terms with the fact that I have reached a point in life where most—if not all—of my “firsts” are behind me … the first glimpse of a new town from my vagabond Army brat upbringing, the first day of school, the first day of summer break, the first love, the first job, the first kiss, the first day of college, the first apartment, the first “real” job, the first date with the last love.
I know this is all very normal. I know my friends feel the same way. I know that Rob—the co-participant in my last first kiss—certainly can relate. We sometimes take drives in the evening out to the valley where he was born and raised. We drive by old haunts—his—and talk about old times—ours, separate and together. With the radio up and the windows sometimes down, I catch it—the light—if only for a second or two.
Bruce Springsteen and countless others have made careers out of writing and singing about the light, losing it, and chasing it with reckless abandon. It’s one of those universal rites of passage, I suppose—that realization that this IS your life, and you’re grown, and you’re completely responsible for driving this train from here on out. Some days, that feels downright liberating and exhilarating. Others, it feels downright depressing.
As 36 looks at me from just up the tracks, I’m deciding right here and now to make it an exciting ride. It’s been too slow and smooth lately. I need some twists and turns. Besides, I spent too much money on these cool kicks to banish them to the back of the closet. And they sure don’t belong on the straight and narrow.