Middle-Aged and Thankful...

November 2007

Every year, when November rolls around and Thanksgiving makes its appearance on the calendar, I spend lots of time doing what I’m supposed to do – think up reasons to be thankful.

If that sounds rather flip, I don’t mean to. I have much to be thankful for, first and foremost, that I live in this country and that I have the luxury to think about my blessings, instead of concentrating on things like scrounging up enough food to feed my family and finding ways to avoid getting killed in some war zone.

I am truly blessed, and I always try to acknowledge my life’s gifts not only in November, but every day.

This year, though, I am truly thankful for one, seemingly odd thing in particular: I am thankful that I am old.

Allow me to clarify. Last month, two events in particular highlighted in no uncertain terms my forward march to the beat of time’s drum.

The first involved a very long night in a bar, and the second revolved around costumes and candy. (I know this could go in lots of directions, but I promise all are most definitely G-rated.)

Several weeks ago, I spent an entire Saturday night in a bar. I mean all night, from about 9 PM until well after 1 AM.

My son recently started his own clothing company and was putting on a “fashion show” of sorts – displaying his merchandise and selling it to the crowd. He creates all of his own designs and I’m really quite proud of him, but back to the bar. I volunteered to act as the sales rep that evening, selling the t-shirts, baseball caps and small handbags to the twenty-something patrons and standing guard over the money.

Needless to say, by 10 PM, the place was teeming with young adults (kids to me), the band screamed at ear splitting decibels, and the heavy, smoke-filled air wrapped me and my husband (who reluctantly came along for a few hours) in a cloak of murky, stinky mist for the entire night.

And I said to my husband, “Remember when this used to be fun?” “Not really,” he yelled back. At least I think that’s what he said; I really couldn’t hear him.

I played the dutiful mother and stayed until I couldn’t stand it anymore and then I left, with merchandise and money safely in tow, after, of course, making certain my son had a sober ride home.

When I pulled into my driveway and walked back into my boring middle-aged life, all I could say was, “Thank God. Thank God I don’t have to do that anymore.”

The second epiphany-inducing event occurred at Halloween, a time of year when I have traditionally lost my senses and force fed my husband and kids endless family outings involving hay rides, scarecrows and haunted houses, all in the name of creating happy family memories.

I also insisted on smothering our house in spider webs, ghosts and carved pumpkins, and yes, I did bake the pumpkin seeds, although no one ate them but me.

My husband and I dressed up every year with the kids, but this year, with only the youngest home and she with plans, Halloween was unceremoniously downsized and we decided to forgo the whole thing and just leave a bowl of candy on the porch while we went around the corner for a quick dinner out.

I realized (after a split second of wistfulness) that I didn’t care; I was “Halloweened out” and it was fine with me.

Added together, both events equal old.

And I have never been more thankful.