No, no. I'm not at the end yet, or even contemplating such a thing. Still trekking. But I am anticipating my 65th birthday coming up this summer.
I gave up my post as Queen of the Universe some time ago. It may still be vacant, if you're interested. Now I think I'm getting ready to take the next step. In fact, it may have already happened and I'm just now noticing.
It may have been the pedagogic aura of the times, or growing up with a perfectionistic music teacher, or being the eldest of 4 kids in 5 years, and therefore the Junior Mom and Self-Appointed Commandant ---- or maybe just my own idiosyncratic self. Whatever the origin, my life's efforts have been toward striving for perfection and simultaneously knowing it's not possible to achieve that goal. Now, if that's not crazy-making, what is?
All those quizzes and tests and papers that proclaimed 100% in bold red ink were mere strokes to the ego, not some sort of objective truth. I was well schooled in the Law of the Universe that says there is no such thing a perfect paper --- or anything else. There is always room for improvement, and my course in life is to doggedly pursue it, even knowing it is impossible.
I don't have a memory of being told that explicitly, but I also don't remember a time when I didn't know the answer to the question "How do you get to Carnegie Hall?" (Practice, practice, practice.) I have been haunted by the conviction that if I were left to my own slovenly devices, I would sink into a sea of sloth with nothing but the bubbles to show for my unlived life.
As many of you know, I spent hours and years and a small fortune in therapy. I had a lot of trouble figuring out how someone as patently privileged as I, could be enmired in so much anxiety and psychic garbage. Therapy and all the other pursuits have helped over the years. At least I'm still here, sober and breathing. I think hanging out on the planet long enough to get what people of an old-fashioned sensibility used to call wisdom, helps too.
I believe I am a full-fledged member of the "I'm Sixty-Five --- Fuck Off" club. My wardrobe consists almost entirely of comfortable, stretchy clothing. It's hard to tell the pjs from the work outs from the going out for sushi clothes. I've definitely reached the point of hopping in the car when I suddenly need raisin bread and chamomile tea and not even thinking about whether I'm wearing a bra or real shoes. Best of all, I'm as likely to say no as yes to invitations, proposals, and suggestions, rather than cursing myself for making commitments I don't want to keep. I can even change my mind without feeling guilty. The world keeps chugging along with or without me, so I might as well do what I want.
It's all a great relief, this not having to chase impossible goals only to chastise myself when I fail. I settle into my life in such comfort these days, paying the most important attention to things that really matter to me and letting the rest slide away. Jill and I were talking this week about all the things we don't spend money on because they just don't seem important anymore. I sometimes wonder what it would have been like to know this thirty or forty years ago, how much less anxiety and fear I might have experienced.
65? Bring it! I ain't skeered.
