Hello 43: When Denial No Longer Works

“What? No fucking way!” This was me talking to my car radio.
“That’s right. Today marks the 30th anniversary of the release date of the album Purple Rain.”

I almost crashed into the person in front of me.

“No it’s not!” I yelled at the DJ.
“I know, it’s hard to believe, right?” He continued.
“Uh, yeah! What are you talking about, dude? 30 years??? There’s no way!”

I began chuckling under my breath. 30 years. Right.  But then I began flashing back on my life…in quick little snippets like when Bruce Willis puts it all together at the end of “Sixth Sense.” And I’m back at Arts Unlimited, the summer program at Chadwick School in Palos Verdes. I’m learning a jazz routine to “When Doves Cry.” And I’m…13! Holy shit.  He’s right. It was 30 years ago.

I had to pull over.  Manically, I began scanning my brain for other dates. Other “anniversaries” to convince myself that I was, indeed, old. I thought of Kurt Cobain’s death and did a quick search on my iPhone. I never used my iPhone to go online because, I mean, how the hell are you supposed to see anything on there unless you turn it sideways and then you still need to expand it while accidentally clicking on some website for Buitoni’s Pasta Made Fresh Daily and now I’ve somehow ordered three pounds of rigatoni.  But this was an emergency.  And there it was, the 20-year anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death.  Holy crap. That was 20 years ago???

I remember that day vividly, having just finished my thousandth shift at Houlihans in Torrance, my blue button down shirt smelling of fried calamari and my khaki pants stained with iced tea and bbq sauce. I had one of those car phones that plugged somewhere into your dashboard. And as I attempted to dial my boyfriend at the time’s number, that stupid curly chord kept snapping the phone out of my hand.  Normally I wouldn’t have been in such a rush to commiserate about Kurt Cobain but my boyfriend, who I was living with in his parent’s home because we couldn’t afford a place on our own, absolutely idolized Nirvana.

“Hey babe. Did you hear the news?”  
“What news?”

I could tell he had just smoked a bowl in our four foot purple bong.  His voice was a register lower and he was hacking up…something.

“I just heard on the radio, babe. Kurt Cobain. He’s dead. He killed himself.”
“Holy shit.” He said, continuing to cough up whatever was left in his slim body.
“Are you okay?” I asked, wrestling with the tangled coil of phone chord.
“Yeah.  I mean, whatever. Did you bring home those chicken tenders and onion rings?”

Yup, that pretty much summed up our relationship.

And now, 20 years later, I’m in another car. A better car with a better life. And the truth was becoming very, very clear. I’ve been on the planet for 43 years. 43 years??? And now I can’t stop thinking of all of the other potential anniversaries. And things that were invented and made obsolete while I’ve been alive. And I flash back to things like the “old fashioned” tape recorder I brought into my classroom where my 18 year old students all looked at me like I had just crapped my pants saying, “What’s that?” Or the fact that I’m now officially the same age as a lot of my student’s parents. I suppose it doesn’t help that I work with teenagers every day. It’s a constant reminder that I am, in fact, older than they are. A fact that I desperately tried to prove wrong during my first year of teaching.   

I had just turned 30, which was a doozy within itself.  I remember looking in my medicine cabinet mirror and suddenly noticing that I had dozens of lines under my eyes. What the hell? Those weren’t there yesterday, were they? I mean, could they have just appeared overnight? No, no, that doesn’t make sense. But waking up and actually being 30 turned everything into a magnifying glass.

“Where did these white spots come from?” I horrifyingly asked my husband.
“What white spots?”
“These, on my legs.” I threw them up on our kitchen table.  
“What are these?”
He took a quick look and stared at me.
“I don’t know, sweetie.”

I continued staring at them for another 18 minutes trying to comprehend what was happening. I mean, these were my grandmother’s legs. Not my legs! I then went through the stages of grief. Shock and Denial. No, those aren’t white spots; they’re just, you know, from that time I got attacked by mosquitos a few months ago.  Pain and Guilt. Oh, why didn’t I use sunscreen all my life? And all those lotions people used to give me. They could’ve helped! But no, I had to donate them to the women’s shelter down the street. Anger and Bargaining. God damnit!  Okay, listen, if I go to the pharmacy right now and get the best anti-age defying products and use them every day, will you please take these spots off my legs? Please? Depression, Reflection, and Loneliness. I can’t believe I’ve let this happen. That I’ve let myself go like this. I shouldn’t be seen by anyone. I’m officially hiding from the world. Or at least wearing pants for the rest of my life. Acceptance. Okay, so it’s a wakeup call.  I’m 30. I’m 30 and I need to use things like lotion and creams and toners and masks and scrubs.  

But now, I miss 30. I long for 30. I mean, 30 was brutal but now…this. 43. There’s absolutely nothing special about 43. Nothing! It’s just, lame! It doesn’t look good as a number. It doesn’t sound good when you say it. I mean, 43. Yuck. And, yes, I know it’s just a number and it doesn’t define who I am. But it’s still a bit of a dagger in my bloated gut.  

So, now I have to ask myself some questions. Questions like, am I doing everything I want to be doing in my life at 43?  Am I missing anything crucial? What more can I do to be a happier and more fulfilled person at 43? Keeping in mind, of course, that I am, and always have been, a late bloomer. Knowing that there’s still time. That there are still things in my reach. That I can continue opening doors for myself even if it feels excruciatingly vulnerable at times and like I’d rather rip my teeth out of my face than take a risk. My life is great. It really is. But, I do want more. I want to learn how to knit something other than straight! I want to write something…anything, each and every day! I want to make multiple documentaries! I want to hit my goal weight and actually stay there! And yes, I’m getting older. And maybe I do need to pull out my readers that I bought at Rite Aid next to the pamphlet about aging gracefully to read my Us Weekly but, I mean, I have to be able to actually see the “Who Wore it Best” photos! And, maybe most importantly, I need to remember that I did actually get carded last month at Ralph’s!