Forty-one

As things go, and as you probably know things can and often do go any number of ways, the way this particular thing went was not in the least bit surprising.  Exactly 40 years after my birth, I encountered my 40th birthday.  It was right there waiting for me at the appointed date and time, complete with a surprise visit from the best friend from high school, followed by the carefully planned surprise dinner with friends at a favorite restaurant and, the next day, the requisite hangover.  And, just as predictably, the event came and went and nothing much really changed.


Except that then it happened again.  The birthday, that is, though of course this time it was a year later.  It occurred to me, being the educated, meticulously observant person that I am, that this pattern was likely to continue, with each birthday accumulating on top of its predecessor until the number reached some unholy level beyond human comprehension.  This profound insight into the very fabric of the universe produced such an overload on my synapses as to cause my thoughts to start driving on the left-hand side of the road.  And, get this, my thoughts didn't even know how to drive before!  I know, right?!   Strange things started happening.  I calculated my probable life expectancy.  I  found myself perusing offerings of skin cream for "mature" skin that promised to "reduce visible signs of aging" and "eliminate fine lines and restore youthful skin tone."  I began flossing my teeth every day.  I started writing a novel.  Here is the opening sentence:

Fucking high school vampires.

Now, I know you really want to know what the second and third sentences are, but you're just going to have to wait for the published edition.  No Stephenie Meyers "you stole my incomplete manuscript of Edward's response to Twilight and posted it on the Internet without my permission" drama for me, thank you.  Suffice it to say, the novel continues for some eleven or twelve more riveting pages until one comes to the following passage:

But 41 was different.  It snuck up on you and bit you in the ass.   She had been perched precariously on the ledge that was 40 for a year, but this day now marked the inevitable tip over the edge and the downhill slide to 50 and – unthinkable -- points beyond.  

She was middle-aged.  

Somehow the moniker seemed to emphasize the aged part and much less so the middle part.  It was like having someone roll-up a nice leather recliner right next to as you were busy running flat out as fast as you can.  It called.  It beckoned.   And the irresistible urge was to sit down.  Take a load off.  Rest for just a minute.  It sounded like such a relief and like so much common sense.  But the trick was on you.  Those minutes would turn into years and you would never get up again.  Not really.  Once you sat down and got comfortable, it would never be the same again.  

In short, it was the beginning of the end.

I know.  It's pretty awesome.  The point, though, is that the novel writing continued and as of this post there are at least 126 pages of prose, the likes of which you cannot begin to imagine, now occupying a folder on my laptop.  But here's the thing: once your thoughts start driving on the left side of the road they will not go back.  They start drinking Guinness,  gossiping about the Windsors and spending inordinate amount of time at the dentist in order to address the many needs of their very bad teeth.  And then, they start a rock band.  

It happened like this:

From: Robin.Preble
Sent: Thursday, March 18, 2010 11:09 AM
To: [friends who shall remain anonymous]
Cc: [spouses of said friends who shall also remain anonymous]
Subject: I am certain to regret this . . .

Although you don't all know each other (yet), you all know me which means you already know that I am not completely right in the head, so hopefully this e-mail will not come as a total surprise.

As most of you know, for the last year or so I have been contemplating what it means to be forty-f***ing something and I have answered that question in a variety of ways, including probing the limits of my capacity to drink Gin, finding out how much smack I can still lay on a tennis ball, and most importantly, massively increasing my daily allowance of rock 'n roll.  So far, I have discovered that (1) although clear, Gin can still lead to punishing hangovers, (2) I can smack a tennis ball plenty hard, but it will result in shoulder impingement syndrome and a physical therapy program to encourage my right shoulder blade to play nicely with the muscles and tendons around it (less impingement, more cooperation), and (3) that rock 'n' roll still has magic, youth-infusing, healing properties.  It is on this last point that I wish to address this group.  In plain and simple terms my proposal is this: let's form a band.  

WTF?  You may be saying to yourself.  Yes, we are busy.  Yes, we are old.  Yes, this is not a practical proposal.  I concede all of those points.  But if you keep following that course, when you wake up tomorrow you will be 80.  Not being in favor of being 80 anytime soon, I propose that we not give in to reason and practicality.  They are nefarious forces if allowed too much free reign.  (This is also where the Gin can be very useful.)

So, why are you the lucky invitees?  Easy.  You are the only people I know with past band experience and some musical ability.  All flattery aside, I think this could be fun and I have what I think is a modest goal in mind: If we could play one or two songs by the end of the summer, I would gladly host a backyard bash for our debut performance.  

I am open to including others you know of and/or any of our offspring who are interested.  As for my contribution?  I am willing to provide organization, enthusiasm and possibly some singing (provided I've had enough G&Ts first).  Also, I am going to be taking drum lessons, so I might be able to do something minimal on that front, but it's a long shot.

So there you go.   Happy Thursday.   

[signature block with my name and contact information at very large corporation]

Indeed, it happened exactly like that.  One minute I was happily engaged in the dutiful and prudent tasks that one encounters on the right side of the road -- obeying all traffic laws and utilizing seat belts and turn signals appropriately to increase safety and the efficient flow of motor traffic -- and the next I am careening into oncoming vehicles, honking wildly and arranging gigs in my backyard.  

What is threatening to follow in subsequent posts on this blog is the sordid, ugly reality of what happens when such thoughts hijack the brain of a middle-aged woman of no significant stature or consequence and compel her to do rock 'n' roll. If you have any respect for yourself and others, you will look away and pursue this no further.  If, however, you have no such respect, then by all means pull-up a Guinness and a tooth pick.

Cheers.