Happy Forty-Five!

To My Friend, on Your Forty-Fifth Birthday

      Forty-Five. That sounds like a pretty daunting number when combined with “Happy Birthday,” but here you are. And it’s not really as scary as it sounds. After all, you’re only halfway to ninety, and that’s a lot of livin’ left! Old-timer that I am, I thought I’d pass along a few words of advice from my six-month head start on this milestone to tell you about some things you might expect in the coming year…

     First, if they haven’t already, your arms will begin to shorten. For this malady, your optometrist may prescribe bifocal eyeglasses. Now the good doctor and his staff will likely point out the many stylish options available and will offer you the “lineless” bifocal so that no one will be able to tell just how old you really are. But beware. Bifocals are not for the uncoordinated. I have never gotten the hang of raising my head up to look down at what I’m reading, and looking down to see through the top of the lens while I’m driving. All I get is a headache from the damned things. I argue with the doctor that I can’t see out of them, but he says I can, so I’m stuck. My advice is to take the money you would spend on the lineless bifocals and get a massage and a facial instead. If you still need reading glasses, head over to Target and buy a cheap pair in some outrageous color or zebra print that will embarrass your kids and that you won’t mistakenly wear out of the house. Maybe in a few years you can get one of those chains that hangs around your neck to hold the reading glasses, but for now just make your kids go look for them whenever you need to read something.

     Second, sometime soon, aliens will visit you in the night and replace your body with, well, something else. Afterward, you will be mysteriously unable to purchase clothes in any department store in Dallas. None of the regular jeans or “Young Attitudes” tops will fit you anymore, and you will cry in the dressing room. Instead, you will be consigned to shop in places like Chicos and Coldwater Creek that offer clothes for the more mature woman and come in prints better suited to the cruise ship or shuffle board court than the office. “More is More” in these boutiques, and you have to stay on your toes to avoid looking like someone's mother-in-law. Fashion tip: stick with solids or simple print offerings, lest you blend in with the fake foliage at Luby’s or the glint from your rhinestone–studded jacket blind others in your path. Alternatively, you can take a teenager along who will roll her eyes and mumble “Grandma” under her breath anytime you pick up an offending item. If you’re short on teenagers, I’ve got one I can loan you.

     Third, you will become all too familiar with your gynecologist. Hormone testing, mammograms, and bone density tests are but a few of the exciting things he (or she) has in store for you. And with all that to worry about, he (or she) will lecture you like a teenager that you can still get pregnant! It’s just not fair—I mean one day you’re having a hot flash and the next you could be knocked up. Life is truly a bitch. And I’m not even going to talk about the leak-when-you-laugh syndrome, because if you don’t already know about that, you’ll find out soon enough.

     But seriously, being 45 isn’t all that bad. In fact, I’ve never been happier. When I was 25, I viewed 45 as so ancient as to be almost dead. Surely, I thought, if you drove a four-door sedan, or worse, a mini-van, your life must be just about over. Nothing left to hope for. But fortunately, the wisdom of my youth has been proved folly and I don’t feel “almost dead” at all. I feel very much alive, and hope you do too. And I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up…maybe the cool old lady professor who can match wits with her young students and do the Sunday New York Times crossword in ink. Or maybe I’ll go ride a camel in Egypt and write about it on my blog. But I’m sure that in another 20 years we’ll look at this essay and laugh at the naiveté of my current outlook on getting older. We’ll both think how young we were then and how much more we know now. So when you turn 65 I’ll write you another story and give you some more advice, but for now, Happy 45! And please, try not to get pregnant.