Earlier in the fall I was at the park with Little Man on a beautiful day, doing our usual thing of taking one lap around the bike path, where I, bicycle-less, chase after him on foot*, followed by us throwing stones in the pond and eventually falling in. Wet shoes necessitating our departure, we made our way back to the van, when a red convertible pulled into the spot next to us. Watching the couple in it get out in their biking gear, and start unloading the two mountain bikes on the car's rack, I was so jealous. "Ugh, how nice would it be to be them?", I thought. The woman tied back her gray hair into a pony tail and they took off. That's right. This couple was about fifty-five.
I have realized, dear readers, that while I enjoy my life currently, when I do fantasize about a different time in my life, it is not my twenties I miss, but my fifties I dream of. When we first had kids, H and I would look back longingly at the child-free days early in our marriage. Sleeping in, going out to dinner, our clutter-free existence, all seemed pretty enticing to two sleep-deprived new parents. But when I really look at the details, what do my twenties have to offer me now? I drink, but not to excess, so the bar scene holds little charm. OK, I so miss the ability to dance in a public space, that is not a wedding venue without looking like an ad for Cougar Life**, but being married, bars are not the source of fun they once were. Career. In your twenties, you are still trying to prove yourself and are riddled with insecurities, while probably not getting paid all that much. Yes, my current career pays nothing, but I at least feel I have mastered it and have gained a confidence in my abilities that will make any future endeavors easier. And speaking of getting paid little, in your twenties you are probably living in some adorably shabby apartment, barely big enough for you and your spouse. H and my first bedroom was ten feet by seven feet. We had a full-sized bed, one Ikea end table and dresser in it and nothing else. Poor H had to put his alarm clock under the bed on his side, with mere inches of space to get his hand under the bed to run it off. Why do I want to go back to that exactly?
Your fifties on the other hand, are perfect. THink about it. I chose the age fifty-five specifically because that is the age I will be when Little Man goes off to college. While I do expect some boomerang years when the kids return home for brief, let me say it again, brief, periods of time, the house will be empty for the first time in twenty-three years. Sure, they'll be some tears shed, but nothing a spur-of-the-moment road trip can't cure. H will be riding out the end of a successful career and be able to spend more time away form the office (or so is his plan), and having sent my children off into the world, my life will be a little less frantic as well***. In your fifties, you have time and, hopefully, good health and a little money. You have developed tastes and interests over the years that you now have the means and ability to pursue. That couple at the park, for example, I can see H and I doing that. Going for a long bike ride on a lovely fall afternoon and then having a late lunch at an outdoor cafe, and having a a glass of wine because I can take a nap after lunch. Maybe we'd even see a movie after. Weekend away? Sure! We don't need a sitter and no one has a hockey game for us to freeze our asses of at on Saturday morning. Lets' go! New exhibit at The Met? Wait out the rush hour traffic and we're there! Stayed too long and now it's rush hour again? Aw, too bad, looks like dinner in the city.
The fifth decade seems like heaven, doesn't it? Ok, so maybe you're a little wrinkly, and you have to start (or continue) dying your hair. but if you feel good, who cares? This time is payback for all the hard work you've put in raising your kids, and is probably before the grandkids start arriving, necessitating returning the good karma and babysitting - which, apparently is fun after you have forgotten how hard it was to raise your own kids. I'm doubting that, but it's what I'm told.
So you won't see me passing the young chippies in the city, wishing I were on my way to some hot club, in a short skirt I bought at Forever 21, looking for love. Instead, I will look with longing at the stately woman, in the Burberry sheath, on her way to dinner at Le Bernardin with her husband. I bet they'll dance at home later.****
*Bikes for the parents have moved high on the to-buy list, as I am going yo drop dead of exhaustion one day at the park
** I saw a commercial for his service while I Houston and almost died. Sadly, I qualify age-wise, but not looks wise, unless there's a category for "haggard".
*** But perhaps I will be on a book tour...
****Kitchen dance party. Try it. You'll like it.
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