Redefinitions

I’m pretty sure when I turned forty, I talked about “redefining” a decade. Or maybe it was once I was in my forties and realized that they weren’t as bad as people said they were. I don’t recall fearing forty. My fortieth birthday sucked, I remember that much. My friends all had good intentions, but I ended up pulled in two directions as often happened in Texarkana – one went toward the gay side of town, the other toward the straight. About the time I decided I couldn’t make everyone happy (and would only make myself miserable trying), I accidentally dropped my phone in a mud puddle. After fishing it out (yep, the puddle was that deep), I used my water-logged cell phone as an excuse to make my exit. Strangely, that mud puddle was the best thing about the start of my forties. Fortunately, the decade, though not without its challenges, has turned out better than it started.

Fast forward nine insanely quick years. Today I am forty-nine and beginning the last year of the decade. I could whine about where the years went, my lack of accomplishment, blah, blah, blah, etc., etc. but I’d much rather talk about the future. Not fifty or my “fifties”. Not exactly anyway. Instead, let’s chat about forty-nine. I think, much like the rest of the forties, I had an idea – mostly based on women I knew in their forties, including my mom and my aunts – that forty was old. And really, in deference to my mother’s generation, I’m pretty sure it used to be old. Used to be. That’s probably why my mom talks about my retirement and how I should be saving and how will I live if I spend all my money traveling and self-publishing books. In her mind, forty is almost there. Almost dead. Mind you she’s eighty-three and still killing it (My dad is ninety so I may actually live forever and probably should be saving for some kind of retirement). Nonetheless, historically speaking, most people start to wind down in their forties. And now at nearly fifty, I should be pretty good at it, the winding down.

Trouble is I just got it cranked up in my forties. Pardon the antique car analogy, but my engine is still sputtering and not quite firing on all cylinders yet. That’s why I’m excited about forty-nine. I have one more year to redefine this decade before I start on the next. One year that promises to go crazy fast. Thus far, I’ve got one novel in publication with two more to go, the promotion of that mess, a website to develop, travel, races (including travel to races), and a couple tennis matches in the works. In other words, it’s going to be a busy year. If I keep it cranking, keep rising. If I stay motivated, focused, and happy. Yes, happy.  It is seriously amazing what you can make happen when you’re happy (That is, however, a blog for another day).

For the record, the year is already off to a fantastic start. First, I’m on vacation. In Scandinavia. Second, I ran my annual birthday half marathon in Copenhagen (Shameless plug: I ran with Lena from Go Running Copenhagen and it was phenomenal. I saw the entire city – in 14 miles you can pretty much do that – and enjoyed some fabulous company and conversation. If you travel and run, you need to do a running tour in every city you possibly can. Check out www.gorunningtours.com). Third, I had a pork cheek and apple pizza for lunch.  Scandinavia, running, and pizza? And now I’m hanging out at a coffee shop writing. I know, right?!? It’s the perfect birthday. Hell, it’s the perfect day.

I don’t celebrate because I need to disguise my fears about aging and I sure don’t run long distances on my birthday to prove I’m still young enough to run long distances. Don’t me wrong – I am ecstatic that I still can. However, it’s far more important to me that I start the year happy. I traveled the day after my birthday last year (to Scandinavia for the first time), grabbed ahold of my courage with both hands, and had a life-changingly good time. Then I went on to have one of the best years of my life. That’s why I’m back this year. I’m happy, healthy, even more courageous than last year, running well enough, and writing passably decent. I can do all that in America (and in two weeks I will be), but there’s something about travel. Being somewhere new and different challenges me, shoves me out of my comfort zone, and makes me prove myself to me in a way I can’t do at home. Rising - being forced to rise – brings me happiness. It means I am defying the forces that have (and may again) tear me down. It means I am more than merely alive; I am living. A year that starts this good – this happy – has to become a great – and productive – year.

It may seem a bit premature but I’m already planning for my fiftieth birthday. Where will I go? Where will I run? Where will I write? Croatia is on the short list; however we’ll see where forty-nine takes me in the meantime. I am certain that I will publish novels, run races, and travel (ok, mostly to Las Vegas). But what else? That’s the exciting part –  the becoming, the pursuit, the redefinition. Life needs be about more than riding it out and grinding it out. And planning for retirement. In twenty years, I may say different. Right now, though, it’s my time and this is my decade. It may have started nine years ago with a wet, muddy cell phone, but I gotta believe it’ll end a lot better. If today is any indication, this year will be a spectacular ending to a spectacular decade.