Saying No at 50

Today is my 50th birthday. I am 50 years old today. February 10th. I was born 50 years ago today. I’m struggling with it. Having trouble getting my head wrapped around the fact that I’m 50 today. Turning 30 was absolutely no big deal. Truly didn’t lose a wink of sleep over turning 30. Now, I admit upon turning 40 I did pause to reflect a bit on what exactly it meant to turn 40, but overall it was a good day. I honestly don’t remember feeling bad about turning 40. But 50? This one stings. There is absolutely no way to sugarcoat this. I’m 50, and I’m old. In fact in order to find someone who would argue with this, and to tell me that I am in fact not old, I’d need to find someone in their mid 60s to early 70s. When I would discuss age with my dad and would admit to feeling a bit anxious as I closed in on the big 5 0, my dad would always tell me to relax and remind me that I am in fact not old at all. HE WAS IN HIS EARLY 70s!!!!!! So I think you know you’re officially old when the only people who don’t consider you to be old are people who are TRULY OLD!!!!!

So I’m 50 today. It is not the new 40, and it sure as shit is not the new 30. But . . . . I do think that being 50 allows you some new flexibility that you don’t have in your 20s and 30s and probably not even in your 40s. I think being 50 allows you the flexibility or freedom to say “no” more often. I’m not suggesting you can say “no” to going to work. I’m guessing most 50-year-old people still need to earn a paycheck and pay mortgage and so on. But I think being 50 officially allows you the opportunity to simply say “no thanks” to some things that you probably felt compelled or even pressured to do earlier on.

Skiing is going to be one of those things that I say “no” to starting right now. Up until right about now, I have always felt compelled to go with the flow. If my family wanted to ski, I went skiing. I rented the skis, put on the heavy gear, bought lift tickets, rode a chair lift to 11,300 feet and skied down. Then did it again. Despite growing up in the midwest where I learned to ski in Southern Wisconsin . . . . which is simply one level above learning to ski in Northern Illinois . . . I have been skiing in Colorado five times in the last five or six years. I’ve dealt with altitude sickness. I’ve dealt with small planes trying to land at small airports that appear to have been carved in the middle of the mountain . . . seriously I feel like they pretty much found the least accessible place to land a plane, AND THAT’S WHERE they built the airport.  I’ve dealt with freezing conditions. I’ve dealt with rented ski boots that are so uncomfortable that I’ve debated whether it makes sense to actually take the boots off and walk down the mountain in my socks. I figured the risk of severe frostbite and potential amputation of my toes is a better alternative to wearing the ski boots. And I’ve dealt with ski runs that were so clearly above my pay grade that I oftentimes found myself standing at the top of the mountain looking down asking myself “how did this happen, how did I get here?”

But not anymore. I’m 50. I’m done skiing. Forever. Now that’s not to say that I won’t ever go on a ski trip again. My family loves to ski, and being in some of these Colorado ski towns is simply charming. The scenery is breathtaking. The weather is oftentimes much nicer than it is back in Illinois. The people are great. And again my family loves it. So I’m all in for a family ski trip. But I’m not skiing. Ever again. I’m 50. No thanks.

Here’s the thing, I don’t play golf because I’m not good at it. Despite the fact that all sorts of my friends play golf, and in fact all sorts of my coworkers play golf, and over the years they have invited me to join them, I haven’t played much. In fact I’m guessing I have played golf five times in the last 20 years. No joke. I average a round of golf about every four years.  

And yet golf is played in the summer. In 80 degree weather. You wear a golf shirt and a pair of shorts. For the most part you don’t even walk much as you chase your ball around the course in a golf cart. Every few holes some person drives up and offers you a cold beverage and a Snickers bar. You play at courses called Pebble Beach. Sand Hills. Sunningdale Golf Club. Crystal Downs. Pacific Dunes. Whistling Straits. Prairie Dunes, and Pinehurst Resort. AND, for the most part everyone sucks. Yes, I know there are all sorts of really terrific golfers.  Obviously there are all sorts of people who carry single digit handicaps. BUT, overall your average golfer is awful. And speaking of those handicaps, golf is one of those sports where a total putz like me can in fact play with a guy way better and everyone enjoys the day. I get some strokes on the front nine, and some more on the back nine, and maybe even a mulligan here or there, and suddenly I can play 18 holes.

But not skiing. Skiing is different. Forget the cold weather and the 30 pounds of gear I always seem to be putting on just to make it out to the chair lift. Skiing is one of those sports where you can either do it or you can’t. Yes, of course there are really good skiers and some not so good skiers, and there are more challenging runs for those better skiers, but overall you either know how to successfully ski down a mountain, or you don’t. There are no handicaps to even the playing field, and there are no mulligans. You don’t get a do over. If you find yourself out of control halfway down the mountain, you’re screwed, and you’re probably going to wipe out and yard sale your gear all over the place, or even worse, break numerous body parts. And the runs you take are called Doom and Gloom. Devil’s Crotch. Free Fall. Steeper Than Hell. Idiot’s Delight. And Adios Mother Fucker. By the way, those aren’t made up. Those are real names of ski runs.

Now, this is not a blog about choosing golf over skiing. As I said before, I don’t much care for golf, and don’t plan on picking it up any time soon. BUT . . . I’m done with skiing. I’m 50, and I now have the ability to say “no.” And now that I’m starting to feel slightly better about turning 50, I’m thinking of saying “no” to all sorts of things. Let’s see . . . . dinner parties, picking up dog poop, shaving, wearing button down shirts, eating anything green, waking up before 8 am, working out, brushing my teeth, going to the doctor and closing the bathroom door when I’m taking a dump.

Okay, one thing at a time. I’m done with skiing, but everything else is still on the table. BUT . . . I swear to God as soon as I turn 60, I’m done wearing button downs. Done.

Just Another Birthday

Ask pretty much anyone when they stopped believing in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny, and they’ll be able to tell you exactly how old they were when they stopped believing. Hell, some people can tell you exactly where they were, who they were with, and how the conversation went down when they realized that Santa Claus was not the guy responsible for leaving all those cool gifts under the tree.

But ask someone when they stopped celebrating their birthday, and they don’t have a good answer for you. Sure, maybe they’ll tell you that they stopped having parties at age 12, or they stopped getting presents from their relatives after 13, but no one can pin point when they stopped celebrating birthdays.

And I think that’s because some people truly stopped celebrating them at a young age, while others continue to celebrate it each and every year.

As for me, I think I stopped really making a big deal of my birthday when I was 13 or 14. By then my parents were done having parties for me, and uncles and aunts figured they were done sending presents. Now obviously I made a big deal of turning 16 and 21, but that really had little to do about my actual birthday as opposed to what new privileges I now had as a result of turning a year older.

Nowadays my birthday is simply another day in the week . . . other than a few “milestone” birthdays where my wife throws me a party.

This was not one of those years. So when it rolled around a few weeks ago (on a Sunday) I treated it like any other Sunday.

Started the day with a paddle match with some friends. My partner and I won in three sets. I thought I played quite well, but I will admit there were a few games halfway through the second set where I missed a number of forehand drives. My partner did not miss an opportunity to remind me of it when he said “Well, we were doing quite well until you started playing like Clay Whipple.” He didn’t know it was my birthday. I’m at least 60 percent sure he wouldn’t have made that snide comment had he known it was “my special day.” Okay, I’m 50 percent sure. But a good start to the day – always like a good paddle match, and winning makes it even better.

Got home and made myself a bagel sandwich and a cup of coffee. Read the sports. As many of you know – that is my usual routine – nothing different. But I would argue that all bagel sandwiches are special. And the Tribune sports page is my idea of a good time. So not a bad day so far.

Both my boys wished me a happy birthday and then argued about who said it first. I’m not sure who technically said it first, but I know my wife was a distant third in saying “Happy Birthday.”

The weather turned nasty by about noon, so I used that as an excuse to lounge around on the couch and watch TV. I found a men’s rugby 7-on-7 tournament on TV, and watched it for hours. I literally don’t understand this sport at all, but I am intrigued by it. Mostly because the men who play it are real men. From what I can tell they are the toughest men in the world. I can’t even fathom being this tough.

I mean I know I’m not a real “guy’s guy.” I don’t camp. And I mention that because I think that’s my barometer to determining whether you’re a “real guy” or not. If you can go outdoors, pitch a tent, make a fire, cook food over that fire, and wake up in one piece the next day you’re a dude.

I can’t do any of that. I don’t even own a tent. In fact come to think of it, I don’t even own a sleeping bag which means even if I did own a tent I’d have to borrow someone’s sleeping bag just to go camping, and I’m not entirely sure whether that’s even socially acceptable. Can you borrow a friend’s sleeping bag? You’re really tucked into those things. Isn’t that like borrowing someone’s underwear??

And honestly, for me, in the ranking of shelters . . . tent barely edges out no tent at all.

But there is a MAJOR DIFFERENCE between being able to do “manly” things like pitch a tent and catch a fish and start a camp fire and field dress a wound and playing 7-on-7 rugby. We’re talking about two totally different kinds of men here. Of which I’m neither. But still these rugby guys are Neanderthals. I’m really intrigued by it. So I enjoyed watching the rugby on TV, although I could do without the reminders that I’m not that tough.

Later that night my wife made one of my favorite dinners, as well as a homemade birthday cake. Even better! Last year she used a mix.

My mom joined us for dinner and cake. She gave me a card with $42 dollars in it. I took the $42 dollars. I don’t know why. Should I have given it back to her? Was it meant as a joke? Hey $42 dollars buys a couple large pepperoni pizzas. A guy doesn’t turn down a couple free pizzas, does he??

After getting the boys down my wife offered to have sex with me. I took her up on the offer. Because like the pizzas . . . does a guy turn down sex?? I don’t think so.

Hey, I may not be able to do manly things like camping, and I’m certainly no rugby player, but I’m man enough to know that when someone offers you free cash and sex . . . you take ‘em.

So in the end, maybe I’m still celebrating my birthdays – and I’d have to say it was a pretty good day.