40

When I was in 5th grade, the song “1999” came out. Like everyone I knew, I was so excited to ACTUALLY PARTY LIKE IT WAS 1999, I could hardly stand it. Then my tiny, ridiculous 5th grade brain realized something terrible: I would be 28 years old in the year 1999. Ancient. Way too old to party in any appropriate fashion anymore. I figured that, at age 28, I would be relegated to sitting on the couch with other old people, listening to Dave Brubeck, talking about Phillip Roth novels, and drinking wine. I started hating the song – hating the promise it had, that I would never get to enjoy because I would be old, old, disgustingly old.

I’m turning forty this week, something my dumb 5th grade brain couldn’t even comprehend. And although everyone says that forty is the new thirty, I am fully aware that this is the year that I go from being a MILF to being a cougar. The year that a miniskirt becomes just sad. The year that new words start to enter my vocabulary: hot flash. Fosamax. Spanx. All the same, I’m not too worried about it. I’m going to stay the same awesome, totally humble person I already am. And here are a few promises that I am making to you right now:

1. I will not start wearing clothes that look like they’re from Justice, just because I can fit into them. There is nothing grosser than a middle aged lady in low-slung jeans and a baby tee. It’s enough for me to privately know the relative flatness of my stomach – I don’t need to prove it to the world.

2. I will continue to be a fitness dictator. I am talking to you, my young friends. You are in my radar, and I am telling you right now, if I can force my dog to exercise twice a day (she can bench press 100 pounds – that’s really good for a dog!) I can force you to do it, too. I am currently trying to devise a way to get the guppies to exercise more. They swim a lot, but I am a firm believer in cross-training. And if you smoke….ahem…..Yelena…..I have my eyes on you.

3. I will not become one of those weird ladies who wears fleece sweats to the grocery store and carries around a yoga mat. French women get more chic the older they get, so I’m going to do that, too. Except I’m not throwing away my Baseball Hall of Fame hoodie. I will admit that a chic French woman wouldn’t wrap her dog in that thing, but some things gotta stay.

4. I will not keep my mouth shut because it’s not proper to discuss politics and religion in public. The only people who ever follow that rule are the moderates, and I think it’s time that we moderates begin speaking up. So I’m going to do my part, and stand up for normal, middle class Americans who just want everyone to have a fair shot, and for our kids to live in a decent world. You want to talk about how right your extremist side is? Go solve poverty. Then you can talk about how right your side is allllllllllllllllll day long.

5. I will take up a strange new hobby. Catamaraning. Or geocaching, or collecting Depression glass. Except none of those. Something else. This one is still being fleshed out. Suggestions are welcome. But I will hobby that thing out!!!!

6. I will not have a midlife crisis. So, this means that I will not start tanning, join eHarmony, get a tattoo, buy a convertible, wear my hair in pigtails, go on a Women’s Retreat, start obsessing about having another baby, start getting pedicures “because I deserve it,” date a much younger guy (that is a lie. I totally will.) or start having Girls’ Nights. My girls know that I love them, and they also know that my couch gets very lonely if I’m not there for it, and as my couch cannot make friends on its own, I need to give it attention.

7. I will make sure to get all the dog hair off of my clothes before I leave the house. Having dog hair on your clothes is fine when you are 39, but when a 40 year old woman has dog hair on her clothes, it just looks sad and givey-uppey. If you see me with dog hair on my sweater, you have my permission to prostitute-slap me with a lint brush. I would do it for you.

8. Last but not least, I will not, not now, and not ever, use my age as a reason to give up on my aspirations. I hear so many people say, “I wanted to go to law school,” or “I wish I were a runner,” or “I wish I could play piano,” or “I wish I knew how to crochet cool afghans.” Maybe not that last one. In any event, the way I figure it, I still have a lifetime to live, and there are criminals to defend, marathons to run, pianos to be played, and innocent victims on which to foist handmade afghans. So I’m just going to keep on pushing, regardless of whether I am the oldest one in the room, or the youngest. Let’s see what happens in the next forty.

Baracketology

Recently, you may have heard, there has been a little something going on called the NCAA basketball tournament. Have you heard of it? Did you fill out a bracket? Millions of people do, and you probably have at one point or another in your life. Personally, I never have, not because I have a problem with it, but because my OCD cannot handle thinking about 64, no, 65 teams, and all of the different permutations that brackets would require.

Our president, Barack H. Obama, does not have such a problem, and his filling out of brackets has become a bit of an event through his presidency. In case you aren’t familiar with our president, he is an American citizen, and a huge basketball fan. He even got a bona fide 12-stitch basketball injury last November, which some might have thought gave him some street cred, but I thought just looked adorable!

In any event, all of the news outlets, printed and broadcast, devoted a portion of their space to this event. Who the President picked is insignificant (but on a side note, did you know that Kansas is the greatest producer of meth in the United States, while Ohio is the birthplace of astronauts, presidents and maybe George Clooney? It’s true!) but to some, the fact that he dared to take ten minutes to fill out his brackets, while there were significant world events occurring, was the most unconscionable act that a human could have ever committed. Some political pundits devoted significant portions of their shows to discussing this. Glenn Beck, in fact, wondered if President Obama’s filling out of the NCAA brackets was a sign that he had been hit by a “stupid stick.”

A stupid stick? This reminds me of the headline from the Huffington Post dated December 29, 2008, “Bush Enjoys Vacation as Middle East Crisis Escalates” or “Just Call it Bush’s Vacation from Hell” from USA Today right after Hurricane Katrina. The fact is, that no matter what a president does, there are going to be bozos from the left and the right, jumping all over the fact that this person dared to take even a moment out of his job, which we all have to admit, has got to be pretty stressful, to spend time with his family, his wife, or to fill out something as mindless and meaningless as an NCAA bracket.

As of this writing, there were 265 comments following an online story about President Obama picking the NCAA final teams. Here is one:

“Where is this guy's head at.. People are dying in Lybia. Rebels had been heard saying where is Obama and he is working on his golf game and brackets. Somebody should tell him that the economy is in shambles and that the Japanese Crisis will create a economic problem of Tsumani proportions for us. Maybe the good President will hire some advisors who take these issues seriously. What a sad excuse for a President..”

I am going to tell you right now that I did not doctor that comment at all, including the punctuation, and this makes me sad for America. The fact that someone could legitimately think that the President of the United States of America does nothing but work on his golf game and brackets, is not only exceptionally unintelligent, but also ridiculous. The President of the United States, whether he is Barack Obama, George Bush, or Ronald Reagan, is the leader of the free world. There is no getting around that. His job is hard. My God, if you want to criticize a president, criticize something real.

There is too much time being spent right now, reading into the actions of politicians, and passing uninformed, uncritical, and damaging speculation about them. As citizens, and as consumers of media, and so often as participants in media, it is our responsibility to really question the statements that are being made. Whether the comment is about Barack Obama wasting all of his time obsessing about basketball, or about Sarah Palin being the reason why Gabrielle Giffords was shot, this kind of discourse does nothing to improve our nation, or society, or our collective good.

So, in the end, I guess this is all I have to say: God bless you, President Obama, and grant you, and all who come after you, moments of respite, so that you can then return to guiding us, and leading the world. Also: Go Bucks.

Sensitive New Age Guy

Dear Sensitive New Age Guy, standing in front of me in line at Giant Eagle,

Let’s get something clear between us. You and I are never going to be friends. I look at the items you’ve selected: arugula, acorn squash, some kind of crafted beer, Green & Simple counter spray, and a container of almond milk, and I know one thing: I make a better guy than you do. And I don’t like that.

In the land I come from, a man uses two things to meet his cleaning needs: Fantastic and elbow grease. If he can’t get the grime out of something with one of those tools, it’s just time to throw on a fresh coat of paint. Where I come from, a man realizes that you can’t milk an almond, nor would you want to. Real men eat walnuts, anyway.

I am tired of your intellectual glasses, the small, self-conscious tattoo of something ironic peeking out of your Che Guevara tee shirt, and your sandals, still caked with the dirt from last year’s Bonnaroo or Austin Music Festival or whatever. I am tired of you and your ilk being only one inch taller than me, but pretending that you are okay with that. You shouldn’t be okay with that; you should will yourself to grow. That’s what a real man would do. I hate your facial hair, and the care you put into it. I really hate the fact that you have a facial hair strategy that you employ. Where I come from, a man is clean shaven, or in need of a shave. There’s no strategy there, just the basic realities of mother nature and time.

Most of all, I am frustrated with the example that you set for my son. I keep trying to get him to understand that a man needs to be skilled in the following: basic automotive maintenance and repair, killing things that ought not to be in the house, general lawn, yard and sidewalk care, helping out neighbors, driving a stick shift car, taking charge, and singing the low parts in songs. But you, Mr. Sensitive New Age Guy, you are blowing all of that with your Angie’s list and your Volvo stationwagon with free maintenance contract and your job where you don’t actually make anything or fix anything, but instead, you talk about “thought leadership” and “creating synergy” and “strategic consulting.”

I hate your silver wedding band with a Gaelic symbol on it. I cannot stand that you call yourself “spiritual, rather than religious,” and that you and your aggressively-bob-haircutted wife have specifically sought out a “water feature” for your home and placed your bed in accordance with principles of Feng Shui. I hate the fact that you researched dog breeds on the internet, and considered as one of your factors how much the dog would shed. You just are not useful in my world, sir. Not useful at all.

Now, for the love of God, I am not suggesting that you change everything at once. I don’t care if you like fashion, you get an occasional manicure, or that you cried at Marley and Me. I am not questioning your sexuality or suggesting that it has anything to do with this. What I am saying is that there are certain roles that nature and biology require of you. Strength. Jump-in-frontiness. A mind that is naturally suited to math and physics, e.g., how to put together shelves. And all I am saying is that you need to get back to that stuff. So quick, while there’s still time: go grill something, or build something, or throw something at something. It’s totally okay. We women can take it.

The Longevity Project

"Everybody has the ideas — don't stress, don't worry, don't work so hard, retire and go play golf. We did not find these patterns to exist in people who thrived." –Howard Friedman, psychology professor, University of California-Riverside

This is one of the findings from The Longevity Project, a 90-year study that followed 1,528 Americans, and included twenty years of research among experts in the field of psychology. This study exposed five myths about the secrets to longevity, but more importantly, it finally gave me the freedom to let my Type A freak flag fly. Here are the myths, and why I think they are awesome.

Myth No. 1. Thinking happy thoughts reduces stress and leads to a longer life – Do you remember that Facts of Life episode where a self-defense expert showed the girls how to fend off an attacker using a Tootsie Pop stick? I got the message loud and clear: no matter where you are, find your Tootsie Pop stick, because you never know when you’re going to have to poke someone in the kidneys with it. The study goes as far to say, “Neuroticism was health-protective.” Hooray!

Myth No. 2. Gardening and walking aren't enough to keep you healthy – My mother claims that exercise kills, but this is the same woman who, at age 77 belongs to a bowling league and regularly does water aerobics. While it doesn’t hurt that my mother is made out of brillo pads and Irishness, part of the secret to her vigor is remaining active. The best part of this portion of the study is that it’s not suggesting that you have to enlist Jillian Michaels or follow through with that P90X that has been glaring at you from on top of your DVD player. It is simply saying that you just need to stay off of the couch.

Myth No. 3. Lighten up; being serious is bad for you – The study states that "qualities of a prudent, persistent, well-organized person,” are the greatest indicators of longevity. I am so glad to hear that, because I am tired of tattooed, sandal wearing, chronically late, “free spirits” being lauded. I think “free spirit” is code for, “not good at regular stuff,” and those people are just a bunch of jive turkeys in my book. Also: I love to write lists, and I love people who write lists. Like Santa. And, like Santa, if I made a list, I would check it not once, but twice. Some people call that obsessive-compulsive. I call it good clean fun.

Myth No. 4. Take it easy and don't work so hard. You'll live longer – The other day, my friend Jay said to me, “You’re just a doer. You always have been.” Word, Jay. I come from a long line of doers, including my mother who had eight children, worked full time, cooked delicious meals, sewed all of our recital dresses, was a regularly published writer, and DID VOLUNTEER PUPPET SHOWS FOR OLD PEOPLE AND CHILDREN IN HER SPARE TIME. AND SHE MADE THE PUPPETS! So it’s no wonder that I was born devoid of the ability to do anything as a hobby. But, if you’re like me, then you have embraced the part of yourself that can’t just enter a 5K, but has to PR in it. The part that keeps up your calligraphy skills “just in case” (of what, I am not sure. Just in case it suddenly becomes 1776 again, I guess). You are the type who laughs ruefully at the poor souls who think they’re busy because they have to navigate the grocery store after work. In my world, not only do I have to try my best at everything, but I still have to be able to come up with a good Kurt Vonnegut quote on demand, recognize all songs by The Who by the first three notes, type at least 85 words a minute, know every position player for the Yankees going back to 1997, and play Chopin waltzes flawlessly. I’m sure you have your list, too. We are going to live forever!

Myth No. 5. Get married and you will live longer – I wrote a whole post about this, so I’m not going to go back into it, but I would simply like to add this: Ha! I knew it!