It was Easter Monday, April 9, 2012. You know those fresh spring mornings when the sun streams through the windows, you awaken to the melodious songs of wrens, chickadees and finches, and the aroma of lilies and forsythia hang heavy in the air like the smell of a sweet and heady perfume? Well, this was not one of those spring mornings. It was gray and overcast, unseasonably cold for early April with a good stiff breeze that sent a chill through your bones. Rain was predicted for most of the day; that very thought exhausted me more than anything. It was a lazy, lethargic kind of day specifically designed for sweatpants and hoodies, good books, Law & Order marathons and long naps on the couch under big, thick comforters. And it was exactly eleven days before my birthday. That is when it hit me that I would be turning forty.
The BIG 4-0. Forty had always hung out there in the far, far distance like something you could just barely see on the horizon if you squinted really, really hard. It was an age that seemed so old when I was eighteen
Eighteen was the age where I was going to kick the world’s ass. I was so cocky, so full of optimism and promise and had such big plans. By the time I had turned 22, the world had already kicked my ass several times over.
Upon reaching the ripe old age of twenty-five, forty still seemed old but not nearly as ancient as formerly perceived. I knew people who were forty, well I worked with people who were forty or in their forties and they still seemed kind of cool. And once I hit thirty, well by that time, forty is not old at all. Forty was young, very young. In fact, in my thirties, I had friends in their forties. We would sit around the bonfire drinking beer and laughing about stories of our glory days in high school and college. We would reminisce about all the stupid stuff we did when we were young and boast about how we didn’t get caught doing all those things that we shouldn’t have been doing. Each story was better than the last.
Certain songs make me nostalgic for those days. In fact, I can’t listen to Bon Jovi without reliving those summer walks to Dairy Queen for Blizzards or the late-night strolls during the first snow fall or numerous jam sessions with my friends, Laura and Karen. And the Indigo Girls bring back those crazy college days in Jayne’s VW Beetle going anywhere or heading to Penn in Cass’s Mercedes for a Theta Xi Frat party or smoking cigarettes on the Fournier Porch with AD, Michelle, Julie and Feeser thinking we were so damn cool.
I remember my parent’s friends were in their forties, but that was twenty to thirty years ago. I knew it was inevitable; forty would eventually catch up with me. Someday (if I was lucky enough) I, too, would celebrate my fortieth birthday. But now forty had crept up and pounced on me all of a sudden. I certainly wasn’t ready for it to spring upon me and sink its claws into me. Where the hell did the last twenty years go?
It seems like I was just in college celebrating a momentous twenty-first birthday. We did the Chestnut Hill Pub Crawl. My partner in crime throughout my entire college career, AD, had orchestrated the entire evening. Purple Hooters were the celebratory drink of choice. We started the night off at JB Winnebare’s at the Chestnut Hill Hotel, preceded to McNally’s, then hit a couple of other random places before heading to the Depot. We wrapped the night up at our favorite haunt, Butler’s Pub.
I had been frequenting Butler’s Pub that entire school year, so the Butler’s Brothers were more than a little surprised to learn that I had just turned twenty-one that very day. We were at Butler’s every Wednesday Night to see the band Serious Fish perform, then, we would come back on Thursday for $0.10 wings and $7.00 Buckets of Rocks. We often stopped in on a Monday or Tuesday because we could, and it was just understood that we would swing by on the weekend in the midst of our countless adventures. It was our Cheers and everybody knew our names.
We wrapped up at Butler’s Pub at closing time – 2am April 21, 1993. AD and I sat outside the bar and talked to Tom – the skateboarder and Tim Butler (no relation to the Butler Brothers who owned the pub) until nearly 3am. At that time, somebody came to pick us up, because we were in no condition to drive. We sang Galileo and Joking by the Indigo Girls at the top of our lungs the entire ride back to campus. It was one of the best nights ever and one I will never forget!
The Indigo Girls provided the background music for my entire college career. We listened to Rites of Passage like it was our job. Their music played in the morning when we got up – blurry-eyed over steaming cups of coffee, while showering – getting ready to face the day, before classes – making sure all assignments were completed, while studying – because who doesn’t study with music in college, while getting ready to go out – the Indigo Girls were always the beginning of a great night out, in the car – on the way to where ever we were going, and at the bar – for obvious reasons. And when we weren’t listening to the Indigo Girls, we were singing the Indigo Girls, loud and proud like we had experienced those very songs. You could hear their music playing in Fontebonne Hall at any given moment of the day or night and the squeaky, off-key voices of young college women singing right along like we were at a concert.
Most of the time, I really don’t feel like I’m any older or any more responsible than I was back then; except now, I am approaching 50!?!?!
I still sing along to the Indigo Girls at the top of my lungs whenever I hear them, though I know I am older and more responsible these days. I have a husband, and a son, three indoor cats, and four dogs. I have a house and a mortgage, three trucks, an SUV, a boat, a business, and life insurance. I take family vacations, visit my siblings in other cities and states, have grown nieces and nephews, have lost my father, but am fortunate to still have my mother and in-laws.
I get up every weekday at 5am and pack lunches for my husband and son, I make a family dinner nearly every night, I clean the house, go grocery shopping but rarely do laundry. And I tend to worry a lot. I worry about welfare and unemployment and taxes and inflation and politics. I worry about mortgages and home improvements and finances and retirement. I worry about my family, my mom, my in-laws and my friends. I worry about the conflicts in our country and the division and what the world will be like for my son when he ventures out on his own in a couple of years.
And I worry, in general, about my son, his education, his health, his future, is he happy, will he be successful – everything a mother worries about concerning her children. I exercise and workout, hike and walk the dogs not only to stay in shape as I get older but also to keep my sanity in this craziness that is adult life. I have a full-time job at a local Catholic High School, and I operate my own consulting business.
Maybe it is because I am around young people for a huge portion of my day, who are the very reflection of what I was decades ago; young and free and on the cusp of discovering something new and wonderful that life has to offer, that I really feel like I never really left that part of my life behind. That is not a bad thing. Being around these young men and women keeps me keenly aware of youth and extremely careful to not lose that vibrancy and optimism and ability to have fun in and with the everyday minutiae of life. Because of them, I have begun to look at fifty a little differently. I am simply an eighteen-year-old with thirty-two years of experience.
So today, don’t take life for granted, be here now, live in the moment, be open, carpe diem, and pray that your life will have all the blessings, joys, and even struggles that make life worth living. And today please pray for me and I will continue to pray for you.
Tattoos, Motorcycles, Beer, Bourbon and Faith 