Sixteen years ago, a friend of mine mentioned to her mother that I had turned fifty. We’d met, once, briefly, when this grandmother flew in to lend a hand with a new baby during that exhausting transition where older siblings need attention and reassurance; infants are oblivious. I’m not sure how the topic of my birthday even arose. Had my friend mentioned the backyard barbecue and the karaoke machine? Or, with access to affordable, if not free, long-distance calling, was their contact more frequent and the range of suitable topics dwindling?
“She’ll be fine,” was the mother’s response. “Only beautiful women have trouble turning fifty.”
Why she felt the need to comment, and my friend the need to pass the comment on, remains a mystery. But there it was, the result of logical deduction: I would face my 50th birthday with ease.
It was hard to take offence since I knew exactly what she meant. There were four categories: beautiful, smart, funny, and athletic. Women positioned each other, and themselves, into one of the columns. When? Early on. Even now, I can bring to mind each friend from my fourteenth summer and drop her into one of those slots; this is appalling, but easily done.
Since my name was never stitched onto felt banners in a high school gym, I concluded I wasn't athletic either. But, like Aesop's turtle, my strength, endurance, and yearning to explore the natural world were designed for the long game of an active outdoor life that includes cycling, walking, hiking. Yup, I'm an athlete.
inactivity
causes me to wilt. any
trophies? medals? nope.