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I’m over 50. Maybe I should stop there.
Ok. Just a bit more.
Officially, I’ve hit life’s midline while residing in the Midwest, rocking a mid-life, middle income, with a middling life. I’m not going to mention any other pertinent facts (including my mid-section) in case I perjure myself in a court of law, the trendy spa or the DMV, which already resents me because I insisted on keeping my seven-year-old picture at my license renewal.
It’s hard admitting that you’re getting older. I’m surrounded by peers in their 20s, flaunting their youth like it’s their personal right with gym-honed bodies, active social lives, wearing Lululemon tights with underwear that would cause me to walk funny, and discussing wedding videographers that cost thousands, when I would use that same money for a teardrop camper to take a vacation away from my family.
I can count some small blessings. I work in a medical facility where the dress code is black scrubs, which strategically hides any weight gain – my COVID-baking-extravaganza-gut pushed my elastic waistband to new levels – and the current safety measures ensure that half of my face is covered. As my hairdresser said, “Just keep highlighting your hair, and you can probably deceive most people by at least 10 years.” I’m not in a place to argue. Living in the middle has taught me not only to be cautiously optimistic and determined, but savvy about budget decorating my “middle-of-the-road” life.
I have an in-house social media professional in the form of my 18-year-old daughter who constantly reminds me that I’m not as funny as I think, that my Instagram photos appear dated, and my “snaps” of the cats are getting redundant and old. Succumbing to hype generated by younger coworkers, I bought the popular On Cloud shoes that hit social media platforms like a brushfire. I found that nothing helps to overcome the age problem more than having people concentrate on your shiny, new shoes, and less on your face.
No one wants a know-it-all in their workspace, but some of my coworkers’ emergency situations (sleep-walking children, small kitchen fires and belligerent porch possums) are things I’ve had significant real-life experience with. You think those large red welts forming on your kid’s arm are oversized bug bites? Sorry, but that’s a ringworm fungus infection from the new kitten you just saved. You’re hoping that brand new tent and camping weekend is going to make you feel like you stepped into the glossy pages of a Patagonia magazine? Just wait until a thunderstorm rocks the exterior and that lining beneath collects five inches of cold, run-off water and you find yourself floating in a sleeping bag, about to drop off into the Niobrara River. Been there, done that, along with broken collarbones, hiking in the dark in Moab, and that one traumatic port-a-john incident.
The news has become a contaminated sewer of inhumane wars and killings, reality show trash and catastrophic weather scenarios. Getting to this age while working in health care and surviving the pandemic has taught me to do what I can, control what is possible, and let go of the rest. I’m not aiming for perfection, nor perfectly constructed days. But I hope that when I return home, there’s someone to greet me, and my evening culminates in a laugh or a beer, or a combination of both. I’m not picky.
I solidly sit in the “middle” with my other hardy compatriots. We might look harried or road-weary, rocking Target-line clothes, ignoring teenagers’ demands for better Wi-Fi or buying rusted Camrys for our kids. But when pushed to our proverbial edge, we’ve honed the ability to pluck a child from a Colorado River while holding onto a ham sandwich and yelling at the other kids to grab dry clothes.
Rock the middle. Do it with pride.
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