What Really Matters

I’m getting married.  Yes, really, at age 60, I am getting married this fall to a man with whom I am deeply in love.  When asked why I would consider this step, why “bother” to get married again and enter the complications of marriage after dealing with all the difficulties of divorce, the answer is fairly simple: because I want to spend the rest of my life with this man, and I respect the commitment that marriage brings, the commitment to work at loving and respecting and growing with someone else.  I want another chance at this with all the knowledge I have gained over the years about life and relationships.

My first marriage took place when I was 23 in 1976.   (As I write those words it seems positively amazing that anyone could think they know who the right life-partner could be at age 23, yet we had a long marriage which produced two extraordinary children.)  The wedding itself was very much of the times:  I sewed our wedding outfits, a friend baked a cake topped with naked bride and groom cookies (I kid you not) and some strange dog walked in the front door, snoozed through the wedding, and left.  We had no money for a fancy wedding, nor did we want one.

Planning a wedding this time around is so different.  We both have families with several generations.  We have lifelong friends we want included.  We have some disposable income.  And I am having a wonderful time planning the event.  I can easily understand how a young bride-to-be can get so swept up in the planning, the details.  There are so many details, and tradition dictates even more.  Wedding fantasies placed in young girls’ heads come bubbling out and put immense pressure on the event. 

I am not young and never had that wedding fantasy.  But I can find myself climbing down that rabbit hole of details.  I love being the producer of events, but for such a significant event, I find myself involved with some detail or other every day – and we are 8 months away!  What will I wear?  (I am having a great time with this one!) Do I have to have invitations?  Where will everyone stay?  Are there parts of a wedding that tradition dictates that I don’t want to forget?  Flowers?  Music?  Help!

And then I remember what matters – that I am committing to a life with my partner.  That’s all, that’s what it’s all about.  The rest will fall in place, including my dress. 

What Next?

What next?

Don’t we all want to know what is next?  It is January 6 and I wonder, wonder, wonder what this year will bring.  I know some things that might happen, things that I am hoping will happen, and that I want to try to make happen, but what what what will happen?

 

Friends with whom I spent New Years Eve and I discussed our answers to the question of whether, if we could, would we want to know when we were going to die?  Interesting to ponder (though for me, it requires admitting that I am actually going to die someday, a thought with which I certainly have not reckoned), and we all had different responses.  Fear.  Motivation.  Freedom.

But I digress.  I guess I am really thinking about ageing.  I turned 60 a few months ago, and while I grumbled about it and secretly relish the fact that according to most, I don’t “look” 60, I am witnessing new changes to my body that happen with age.  Arthritis here.  Loss of mobility there.  Daily aches.  Change in bra size.  Changing skin texture.  And whether or not I “look” sixty in my face, and whether I feel like what I think 60 feels like, I am.  And it is older than 50 and 40 and 30.

And yet, I am at the beginning of a new chapter.  I am very deeply in love with a wonderful man and we plan to marry this year.  We are establishing our lives together, and work may take us to a new locale.  My kids are gone to New York and their respective careers.  And my business is no longer a turnaround, and the fun/difficulty of growth is ahead of me.

So much happiness came my way last year.  So much sadness came others’ way last year.  And so I realize, I don’t have the slightest idea of what’s next.  All I know is that I am better prepared to deal with it than ever before, and I guess that’s the best one can wish for.

You Don't Look Your Age

I am going to say it out loud.  I am turning 60 in two weeks and I can hardly believe it.  I think I felt this way when I turned 30, then 40.  Fifty I believed, even wore, proudly, but 60?  That is seriously into “senior” category, and that certainly puts the fear of goddess into me.

 

I am told often, “You don’t look your age” and always take it as a compliment and a tribute to genes, avoidance of sun and use of expensive skin and hair products since my early 30’s.  I do recognize that the compliment is an obvious example of the value we place in youth and youthful appearance. 

But I also am finally willing and able to accept the compliment for the spirit with which I approach life.  And that’s a choice.

 Just the other evening, I was dining at the bar of a noisy, crowded Nashville restaurant, surrounded mostly by 20 and 30-somethings in tight little dresses.  Just behind me, though, was another woman, whose overheard conversation revealed that she was 61.  As she carried on and on about her ailments and her complaints, I turned around to look, and man, did she “look her age”.  At 61, everything she projected  was that she has given up, settled in, grown comfortable in her oldness with little energy for looking forward.  That is her choice.

Contrast that with Bonnie Raitt, who I saw in concert last month.  She was hot, strutting, confident; who ever noticed that Bonnie couldn’t hit certain notes any more.  She wasn’t talking about it, but rather was celebrating every moment on that stage and every moment that has gotten her to where she is now.

Bonnie is my role model as I cross into this new age decade.  My latest cowboy boots are coming along for the ride, and I hope I am always told that I don’t look my age, regardless of how I actually look.

Missing

In these times of immediate communication, it is more and more rare to feel the longing and aching of missing someone. If I miss someone, I text.  Or email.  Or call.  Or visit.  Before that deep craving can fester into an insatiable appetite, I can get a fix, a nosh, something to tide me over and keep me from feeling the hunger of longing and missingness.

I am now in a committed relationship with a man and it is terrific, truly wondrous.  He and I both travel frequently, and ironically both have positions with companies in states other than the one where we reside together.  Thus, we are away from home a lot, and away from each other during the week more often than not.  While he is on my mind often, the craving and missing don’t kick into full force until about day 3.  And then they hit hard.   Often I attempt to satisfy that craving with a phone call, something which neither he nor I really enjoy, especially after a long day of work and talking.

So I wonder.  How about just plain old missing?  Not talking, not texting, just missing.  I used to know what that felt like, before it became so darn easy to stay in touch.  And I realize, I kind of miss missing.  Do you?