Saturday, March 24, 2007

Today I'm 50.

It feels pretty great despite the fact I decided to vacuum (this is sad but I had to look this word up just now in the large print dictionary I took from my dead mothers' house) my keyboard and I sucked up two of the keys and now I have to gut a vacuum bag full of five-month old carpet debris.

Why, why, why, why??? Oh yeah, I forgot. I wasn't going to whine anymore.

But I digress, in fact, I could go on and on lamenting about the cards I didn't get from my friends and relatives and how every birthday, no matter how I hard I try, I end up crying and having a pity-party over the littlest things, for Goddess knows what reason. This started at age 1 and there's some old 16 mm footage to prove it.

Instead, if I practice the latest best-selling mantras touted in "The Secret" craze I would get more cards if I was a nicer person, abundently nicer.

I'm just not sure I'm capable of nice.

The best gift so far was a phone call last night from my hippie, free-spirit son in Oregon. He and his girlfriend are leaving Oregon because it didn't turn out to be the Utopia he thought. Instead, he told me in a disgusted voice, it's filled with Yuppie posers pretending to be hippies.

The gall.

He's heading to Missouri with the goal of planting and harvesting the biggest vegetable garden he's ever attempted, with a little fence all around it and an archway at the entrance.

I told him that was about the noblest thing a person could do in life. That you could learn a lifetime's worth of lessons just watching things grow.

"Just make sure it's vegetables," I told him, not something else green and leafy. I don't think Missouri is Oregon, if you get my drift. I don't think the law in some of those Missouri counties is anything like Andy of Mayberry.

Anyway, there's still things I want to do in life, at age 50, so that's hopeful.

Live on an Indian reservation.
Write for Rolling Stone. Crazy, insane stuff while they spout "We love it! This is genius!"
Fit into my lime green size 12 jeans.
Wake up in Tuscany nestled between 600-thread-count sheets and wonder how I got there.
Speak fluent Porteguese and read erotic poetry aloud
And, as usual:
Scream on the top of my lungs during an inappropriate moment.

I'll refrain as well from echoing platitudes and wise sayings and crap like that.
The best advice I got was from my 87-year-old aunt, who said beginning this day I should get up off the floor, once in the morning and once at night, without holding on to anything.

"You've heard of people who fall and can't get up," she said. "Well, that's why, because they never do!"

I think that says it all.

Rust


never



sleeeps.

4 comments:

the farmer's wife said...

As I recall, I tried to wish you a happy birthday last week and you denied you were having a birthday -that I must be mistaken. And if I could have found the perfect card it would have been in your mailbox. It's not my fault that the folks from Hallmark and Ambassador haven't caught on to the appeal of cards featuring the countenance of Hugh Laurie or Neil Young.

Unknown said...

Happy Birthday Sharon! Welcome to the world of 50 year olds. Have you signed up for your AARP card yet? I really did buy you a birthday card last week, but it is still sitting on my desk. Hope you had a good one.
Linda

Michelle Tennis said...

Welcome to the over 50 club. So far my 50's have been the best years yet (I just turned 51). My kids are gone, I have grandkids and I can do anything I want to do (even dye my hair pink) and who would care?
Michelle

andy lorenz said...

Hi, I'm andy lorenz, I talked to April today. She told me about your blog. All I really have to say right now is Happy Birthday. My birthday is also March 24th, but 7 years earlier, 1950. carry on, andy