I’m 59 now. It happened quickly. Suddenly on Sunday, the calendar and all the phone calls said, “Welcome to 59.” I’d like to feel different, but I don’t. People always ask at birthdays, “How does it feel?” It feels like yesterday. Feels like 51, and 47, and 32, and even 12. Feels like me. I guess I’m old now. Lucky to be here, considering the alternative.
Can we talk about February babies? Those with birthdays in February should get an extra treat. February just kind of sucks. I wrote this years ago, in a piece about bread, and nothing has changed:
It’s February, the month of gloom. The raw and wretched winter of the soul that eats your dearest wishes for breakfast and spits them out like black ice just before bed. My birthday is in February, as is Saint Valentine’s Day, but none of that helps. Birthdays are always a disappointment and Valentine’s Day just makes me think of massacres and Al Capone.
Wow, she seems like such a downer.
The old house is getting a shine, painters and dust chasing me into the little office. Twenty five years we’ve lived here with crumbling plaster, peeling wallpaper, holes in floors, and colors chosen by long gone strangers with questionable taste. We bought an old lady and we’re finally, slowly, fixing her up.
Maybe we should fix me up.
My house was born in 1860. When she was 59, a world war had just ended and women nearly had the vote. Automobiles were probably showing up on my little road, worrying the hitching posts. She was starting to show her age.
I’ve been smearing shea butter between my eyebrows, in an attempt to mollify the worry lines. At 59, I look like the worrier everyone has accused me of being. As if one could live in this world and not worry.
I stirred my coffee with the cat food spoon and it didn’t ruin the day. This is growth. I’m an adult now. A fallible adult. I drink soy milk and take supplements, but stir coffee with the wrong spoon. Dry January was decidedly wet.
I used to feel that I was running behind all the time and, finally, I’ve just stepped out of the race. A gift of age — why is everyone running? Why was I?
I like 59, I think. Yesterday felt like shit, but it’s February. Colorless, sheet metal days, can’t buy a good idea. Today feels better, the body being its moonish self. I might finally learn how to be a person. Winter tulips to lift the mood, battery candles for the early black nights. I’m growing up. Managing my surroundings, mollifying the worry. Watching the runners go by.
It only took 59 years.
Some thoughts on how to be a person:
Ennui is a luxury and aging is a privilege.
Rescue something or someone, at least once.
My grandmother — the haughty one with the steamroll spirit — said always wear clean undies, lest you wind up in the emergency room.
Shoes matter. Don’t be discounted because of your bad shoes.
The last bit of wine in the fridge is for you.
Notice. The red cardinal in drab winter, the surprising February tulip. Slow down.
Feed people.
Revel in the okayness.
Read everything.
Give yourself a regular, ritual treat (like Friday flowers).
Laugh aloud, alone, in public. Turn heads. Make them think.
Go to a museum. Find a Vermeer.
Comfort first.
Write it down.
Check the spoons.
Courage!
Let’s power through February. We’ve got this.
Lisa
Things to share:
It’s been my (largely unpaid, self-designated) job to figure out what the hell happened to me in my forties. The NYT menopause article has me thinking two things: Yay we’re talking about it, and HRT isn’t a magic pill. I support and applaud hormone therapy when it works (I had success with progesterone, until I didn’t), but it’s not for everyone and isn’t a consistent solution even when it works. It’s complicated! We need so much more than this, but thanks for this, I guess? The parting thought, from the piece: “We need more research.” Amen. Women Wait for Research, an epic poem.
A great interview with
in . “I dared to center myself, a woman — an aging woman — and my experiences, in a culture that seriously frowns upon that framing. That's my act of defiance.” Centering myself. The hard part.- with a lovely meditation on the sanctity of the women's changing room. “ … I am coming to believe that nowhere on this planet can a more naturally compassionate and intuitively kind space be found, where, hidden from the male gaze, women are freed.”
“You diligently carve out time for 'your own work,' but the brazen stupidity of the world has left you mute.” Such a good essay by
.Anna Zinkeisen, who painted that gorgeous power portrait at the top, definitely knew how to be a person. “During the Second World War she worked in the casualty ward at St Mary's Hospital, Paddington, in the mornings and painted in a disused operating theatre in the afternoons.” I’ve got work to do.
Weekly winter tulip subscription, best February gift to self
I love love the moment of you stirred your tea with the cat food spoon. Wrong spoon. It it didn’t ruin your day. Progress. Good read. Thank you.
“Maybe we should fix me up.” Lololol. Also, those bullets at the end! “Go to a museum. Find a Vermeer.” and “Comfort first” 💓💓