One Foot in the Grave

Some birthday thoughts...

Today is my birthday.

I’m never sure how I’m going to feel on my birthday. Some years are met with great delight; others with dread.
30 was the birthday I realized I was firmly in the “adult” category. It all got real three decades in.
Turning 40 was weirdly neutral. It was the Switzerland of ages. Not old but not young.
But 50? Oh, 50 was brutal. It hit me over head like one of those cartoon anvils.
Not sure why it was so daunting. I guess it had something to do with being half a century old and firmly on the back end of my life.
Totally bummed me out.

But, I’ve moved on from 50. And I have an entirely new perspective on this “getting old” thing. It has to do with living more than half of my life. It’s given me a new attitude that many people find grim, nay, morbid, but I find wildly exhilarating…

“It’s fine. I’ll be dead soon.”

Or, my favorite phrase: “It’s fine. I’ve got one foot in the grave.”
Allow me to explain.

As a young woman with young children, life felt endless. Every decision felt high stakes; every mistake could potentially ruin the rest of my life…and “the rest” felt like a really long time.

But now? I mean, how much “rest” is there, really? You know why?
’Cause I’VE GOT ONE FOOT IN THE GRAVE.

Now, I know people for whom this knowledge sends them in a tail spin. But for me, it’s like a permission slip to stop giving so many damns.

It’s completely freeing. Like, “take my bra off” level freeing. Or that relief you get after a really great sneeze. The kind where you sneeze-yell so loudly you scare the dog, and all the snot comes out of your nose and you can breathe again.

I mean, why obsess over wrinkles and anti-aging cream when I could be spending my money on pastries and comfortable shoes? Why try to impress people who are spending $300 on wrinkle cream but haven’t invested five minutes in a genuine thought since Y2K?
Why care about their opinions when they’re too busy curating their lives to actually live them?
And why bother to engage with those who say they want a conversation but are only interested in hearing themselves talk?

Not me, said the little red hen.

At this stage of life, I no longer strive for “balance.” Or “self-actualization.” Or abs.

Instead, I strive for clothes with no itchy tags, Birkenstocks, and to never participate in another gender reveal party or group text. Ever.

So, happy birthday to me. I may be older. Grayer. Wrinklier. Slightly more hunched and suspicious of things like new technology, plant-based “meat,” and anyone who tries to sell me skincare and Jesus in the same sentence.

But I’m also freer. I’ve still got jokes, snacks, vodka and a really solid obituary photo lined up. I’ve reached that wonderful part of life where I’m no longer interested in trying to please anyone who wouldn’t help me move a couch.
Or a body.

And if that’s what the back of life looks like? I’ll take it.

You can run fast in an attempt to avoid getting older. Hey, you do you, boo.

I’ll just be over here, happily sipping on a cocktail and sharing my wrinkly thoughts…
with my right foot in the grave and my left foot dancing.