Forever 39

“You know,” Stancey taunted me from the passenger’s side of the van, “you’re, like, halfway to being dead.”

This was just one of many uplifting comments I was hearing as I psyched myself for my inevitable fortieth birthday. 

I couldn’t even manage an unenthusiastic hahaha.  For whatever reason, this upcoming birthday was getting the better of me.  I didn’t want to be forty.  I just wanted to stay forever 39.

Reinforcing my need to stay thirty-something was my mom’s musings on my grandfather.  


He said life began at 40. 

Until he turned 40 anyway. 

After that, he never said it again.

What did my grandfather and the Mayans know about my fortieth year?  Was it all downhill?  And if it is, would I even notice?

While I reminded myself it could be worse, I couldn’t stop my rhinoceros self from lolling in a watering hole of self-pity.

My neurotic self reminded me that I could be battling a life-threatening illness. Not to mention my child, or my spouse, or...okay, stop.

My hypochondriac self nervously worried about the possibility of having any of the above happen. 

My pessimist self was hinting that I still hadn’t achieved success.

My psychotic self was screaming for more Zoloft.  

Or alcohol. 

Or if nothing else, a tube of Lamisil to remedy the thick, yellow toenail that was beginning to represent just how unremarkable I felt about myself the past 20 years or so. 

What was this birthday, if nothing else, but a big let down? 

So on my last day of being 39, I brooded as I nursed a glass of wine and soaked my yellowed toenail in a bowl of Listerine. 

And I thought…maybe a bit too much. 

Little has changed about me from age 21 until now--aside from trading wine coolers for wine. Nineteen years later, I was still celebrating my birthdays in the quiet comfort of my own environment, with a family I love, but for the most part, just alone.

Thankfully, I have a lot of funny people in my life that will indulge me for a little bit longer.  Or at least until the Mayan calendar runs itself out.

And if I decide to stay 39 for just one more year, then it is the gift I give to myself. After all, if it worked for Jack Benny, why not me?

(Thanks, Wes, for being such an awesome, Internet explorer!)

Will Run for Wine

Up until this past weekend, I thought the most amazing thing my body could do was give birth. I certainly never thought it could run a race.  While I’m totally aware that 3.1 miles isn’t a marathon, it is a whole lot farther than I’ve ever run before. 

Pre-race week, I cursed myself with every run—with every breath!  My mind (in addition to the day-to-day torment it normally spins) was taunting me with vehemence.  When I registered, I didn’t realize how many agoraphobic buttons public running might push.  The closer to race day I got, the more I thought I might need Xanax to get through it.

The night before, Kenny tried talking me out of it.

“What if you get hurt?” he had asked between commercials of Adventure Time.

“I won’t get hurt,” I calmly replied.  But silently, I thought.

Oh my God.  What if I have a heart attack?  Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?!

“You could break your leg,” he said.  “You might break both legs!” he had continued.

As I brushed my teeth and contemplated for the millionth time again why I had signed up, I tried to shove in some positive thoughts where I was currently housing an insane asylum of rabid butterflies.

Race morning followed a fitful night of sleep.  As Stancey and I nervously waited for our start time, my seasoned runner father quietly took in the excitement while I rehearsed several ill-fated situations that would result in me embarrassing my entire family. 

With moments to spare, I began making plans in case something went awry. Thankfully it appeared there were a lot of bushes along the course that I could dive behind, ditch my running number, and place a call to John from my iPhone/iPod.

Strategically placing us at the end of the pack, Stancey and I danced in place several minutes before the swarm of people dissipated.  Our conservative start gave us the mental advantage we needed as we spent most of the race passing runners instead of being passed.

Maybe descending and ascending the hills of Elywood Park on mile three made me delirious, but I choked myself up thinking about how awesome it would be if I grabbed Stancey’s hand and we crossed the finish line together.

But at the final bend, Stancey hastily waved me ahead as she tied an unruly shoelace.

In 32.01 minutes, I completed my first race.  And the simple cheers of the crowd nearly turned my tired, varicose veins into wings.

Later, after Stancey and I had a chance to reflect and breathe, I shared with her my vision of finishing the race hand in hand. 

In less time than it took her to catch up with me, she answered, “Woman, I would have pushed you down.”

And for all the grumbling and second-guessing, two days later, I went and did it again.  I registered us for yet another race--this one promising a glass of wine (for me anyway) at the finish line. 

Until then, I’ll just keep on training, maybe even harder this time.

And Stancey, like she did the race before, will probably just show up and run.

The Apocalypse?

I hate the Fourth of July.  And while it has nothing to do with my lack of patriotism, it does have everything to do with detesting the heat.

Maybe it’s global warming.  Maybe it’s age.  Whatever it is, I began dreading the upcoming holiday days in advance. 

I could imagine the humidity.  I could imagine the bugs.  I could even imagine the two of them combined under the Saran Wrap of fireworks.

What I failed to imagine was the two-hour power outage that transpired around dinnertime.

“You’re kidding, right?”  I groaned when Sam appeared in the back yard with a dead phone.

“I know, right?” he smiled back. 

This was no smiling matter.  No power meant no air conditioned oasis, an undercooked dinner in the crockpot, and episodes lost of the July Fourth Marathon of the The Twilight Zone on DVR. 

Immediately, my mind drew logical parallels of our situation to The Twilight Zone episode of “The Midnight Sun.” What if our recent heat wave was the result of the earth falling out of its orbit?  What if we were all experiencing a moment in The Twilight Zone?

“Relax,” John said as he squirted another chicken mid peck with the garden hose.  “It’s probably just the Zombie Apocalypse.”

As he sat bare-chested in his plastic Adirondack chair with the hose half cocked, he offered, “Want me to squirt you too?”

Opting instead to go inside, I found a shirtless Kenny hanging from a darkened refrigerator door.

“Ahh!  This feels good!” he lisped as he danced in circles.

“Stop!” I sputtered pushing the door closed.  “Do you want all our food to rot?”

“Why are you so mad?” Stancey said accusingly. 

“Because it’s hot!”  I hissed before opening the fridge myself and fanning the residual coolness toward my smarmy armpits.

It had only been seventeen minutes and already I was cracking.  As I looked at my wine on the countertop, I wondered if it was too early to start drinking.  At elevated room temperature, it was hardly appealing. 

As the family gathered in the living room around a dead air conditioner, we absorbed what was left of the cool before body odor overtook us. 

So we did what any other desperate household would have done in a similar situation. 

We went for an air-conditioned drive.

I’m happy to report that after two arduous hours, the City of Oberlin was able to successfully restore power to an area they aren’t quite sure why lost power in the first place. 

Now two days post, it appears the earth remains out of orbit and tomorrow promises to be the hottest day yet. 

Whether we’ve crossed over into The Twilight Zone is still undetermined, because what’s normal or abnormal isn't always easy to gage in The Thompson Zone.