Tag: Birthdays

How to mark turning fifty? For me? Two ways.

First, I sought solitude.

A weekend away with myself, books, writing implements, a beach, and the ticking of a clock in absolute silence (a sound I love in a way no one else in my family does). –

I relished the feel of sand moulding itself to the arches of my feet and the rush of eternal waves onto the almost empty beach. I ran into the bracing water, and it yanked the breath from my lungs. But once I’d dived in, I adjusted quickly to the foaming, swirling rush of it. The plunge through the waves – like moving through liquid glass. And I was alone. Gloriously so.

I could have stayed longer, happily cocooned in my own company.  But I came away with a handful of seashells and some jottings about what fifty means for me.

To date I have hungrily embraced each new decade, and I am not bothered by being midlife (if I live a long one). But I wince at some of the connotations the world cloaks this age in.

I grimace at ads for ‘Fit over fifty’ exercise classes and independent living communities for fifty plus people. I am not ready to go gently into ‘age appropriate’ exercise or towards ‘communities’ of over fifties who wander aimlessly through their last decades. And the prospect of fifty rendering me eligible to enter the geriatric wing of the hospital whenever the next bipolar episode strikes, feels horrific.

My view of fifty?

I am grateful for a body that works well most of the time and that exercise has been a part of my life for long enough for me to know what gets my endorphins going. I have no idea what I weigh, and providing my size doesn’t interfere with my ability to exercise I don’t care.

 Small age spots have bloomed on the top of my right hand, where sun hits skin when I drive. A recent selfie captured some crepey skin around my neck. And surprise jolts me when I look at it because I don’t feel old enough to have this skin. But I move on. Same with my wrinkles. I don’t necessarily love them, but I love them enough to spend money on books, chocolate, and clothes that fit well rather than on Botox.

I am not into anti-aging products and procedures. Not because I don’t care at all about my appearance.  A pretty dress and a good lipstick wrap me in joy when I choose them. But so far, I haven’t turned ‘stopping the visible signs of aging’ into a full-time job I’d be paying money to do.

For me, pregnancy and childbirth did not leave behind stretch marks, varicosities, or cellulite, and my pelvic floor is in great shape. Instead, they triggered my bipolar 1 disorder, which I’d happily trade for some stretch marks.

I don’t worship at the altar of motherhood or martyr myself for it. And I don’t believe in fetishising motherhood into it being the most important, meaningful thing a woman can do. I love my children with a heart squeezing intensity. But that love doesn’t erase the sucking-you-dry-if-you-let-it aspect of mothering.

As for wisdom?

I don’t believe people automatically acquire wisdom with age. If you don’t work for it, you just end up being an older person whose beliefs and opinions calcify into tired well-trodden paths that lack nuance and become almost impossible to break free from.

Some of my rotten patterns have taken decades to unlearn again and again.

I was a perfectly formed perfectionist even before I entered a profession in which the stakes of mistakes are high, and perfectionism is rife and revered. I marinated (quite happily) in the culture of veterinary practice for twenty years. But it has taken a long time to view my perfectionism as deleterious to my mental health rather than as an asset to my career.

I have only recently loosened the white knuckled clench I’ve had on the course of my life and (mostly) relinquished a poisonous, deeply learnt, inbred need for control.

For me, perfectionism and control come with rigidity, and judgement. And while understanding the concept of letting these things go is easy. The work to do it is hard, boring, and ongoing. At times I still slip back into all of them like pairs of comfortable slippers.

The endless pressure to achieve has now mostly evaporated. In its place I recognise that I have more to learn than I ever have and a sense that whatever is next matters.

I have flung open the window toward fifty now and am ready to see what possibilities lie beyond this age for me.

And my birthday wish? That if I put in the work, my words will keep coming.

PS: My second way to mark fifty involves great company and cake. A lot of cake.

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