A Flygirl Looks At 58

Recollections of an aging childless rebel

When Leo season rolls around and I contemplate my birthday, I hear Iggy Pop’s “Lust For Life” in my head. Not only is it a celebratory banger, but getting older always conjures up this early scene in Danny Boyle’s Trainspotting, perfectly scored by the song.

Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life.

Trainspotting was released when I was thirty and it spoke to my inner middle finger in response to societal expectations. I wasn’t pining to be a drug addict, but it resonated with me more than other cinematic darlings of the time, like Jerry Maguire. Your thirties are when you are expected to quit messing around, settle down and acknowledge that your baby maker has a clock that “ticks”. I translated that sound as a time bomb set to destroy my value as a human while being told on a loop I would regret not having children.

In the nearly three decades since the cheeky Trainspotting list, I’ve chosen only a job, friends, dental insurance, and a 65 inch television. The rest of it never sang a siren’s song in my ear, not even when combined with the “please devote yourself to your career to explain your nonexistent maternal motivation” feedback that I still encounter. I’ve always considered work to be a way to fund my adventures, never embracing any particular post as my identity. It was never my dream to “take to the sky”; I just wanted a union job with benefits and flexibility as I was tired of the five day a week grind of office management, restaurant management, bartending, and other weird side hustles like trade shows and selling pictures of my feet for fifty bucks.

Since becoming a sky hostess at thirty-four, I’ve consistently worked just enough to cover my bills and save for retirement, with the occasional extra push to cover a vacation or a “big ticket item”, like a lawn mower or a writing conference. I considered my time on the ground to be my REAL LIFE and my time in the air to be a highly flexible cash generator to infuse my real life with possibilities. I never wanted to live out of a suitcase on the daily to chase expensive grown folk pursuits, like real estate, red bottomed shoes, sport utility vehicles, plastic surgery, or using “summer” as a verb.

Isn’t this the plot of every other non-Marvel movie you see? The protagonist struggles to let go of the corporate grind and chasing material possessions as they pale in comparison to pursuing their passions and spending quality time with those they adore? I’ve always given myself credit for nailing this one out of the gate, but I’ve mostly garnered blank stares while attempting to justify my position in response to the most commonly asked question from my co-workers, “How much do you work?” My response is now “enough”, as in just enough for me and ENOUGH ALREADY. 

My presumptions of my third act when I was in my thirties were surprisingly traditional. I assumed I would retire with my long time partner, an English professor. He would have summers off and we would travel with my flight benefits and we would roost somewhere based on where he was teaching and get cozy. Nothing fancy, just gin and tonics in sweatpants on a mid priced leather couch with popcorn watching couples tv. A plan well within reach. Comfortable. Safe. 

When the path to safe and comfortable became one the professor wanted to walk alone, I moved to Chicago to make getting to work easier. I didn’t end up showing up more often, however. Having been let off the leash after thirteen years, I jumped back into the “live fast, die young” attitude of my adolescence, even though I’d technically outlasted the second part. Every decision I made upon relocating was based on “Let’s do THIS (meet quirky dudes on the internet, get four tattoos, go to the Amalfi Coast to write, attend all four days of Lollapalooza, tap out 2,000+ word stories on my iPhone while drunkenly riding the El, contribute to a TEDx talk, study sketch comedy at Second City, live in a dune shack at the tip of Cape Cod for a week with no power or water) until we figure out the new life plan and settle in.”

I was rescued by my housemate fam after a handful of years of living alone, years I truly savored. It was time to get off the crazy train, but I needed that period to embrace myself as someone eager to “buy the ticket, take the ride” in all its forms and flavors. Perhaps Hunter S. Thompson isn’t the healthiest role model, but I regret nothing.

Fifteen years and one brain-melting disease later, my plan is now quite stripped and simple: Take inventory of my physical situation and decide based on how I feel what I can accomplish. I try not to plan too much ahead of time as it’s all unpredictable. I fulfill tasks days, sometimes weeks ahead of schedule if I have the energy, knowing that my shit days have no concept of deadlines. Sometimes being horizontal is the only item I can check off as DONE in a day.

Feels pretty fragile for someone who used to run at top speed into CHECK ME OUT! territory without hesitation. But I am not brooding over my mortality with each passing birthday. Death sounds like a spa day compared to the possible futures that keep me up at night:

• That I will be a disabled older woman in Project 2025 America, where I will be sent to their equivalent of the Colonies in The Handmaid’s Tale with my other barren mouthy cat mom lady friends. We will be doomed to clean up chemical waste until we die and we won’t even get to poison Marisa Tomei for revenge funsies (Update as of 7/30, apparently Trump thinks disabled people are too expensive and we should all just DIE right away, so I guess I can cross this scenario off the list. The news cyclone moves so quickly!)

• That my brain will continue to function but my body will become a mute human noodle and I will be in a wheelchair blinking “Fentanyl lollipops until it’s over, please” in Morse code to everyone I see, but no one catches on because they’re all on their phones

• That my body will still be ambulatory but my brain will be fried except for the part that enjoys defying authority and yelling obscenities at people on the bus. I will be infamous at the assisted living facility for being a “handful”.

I do sleep better knowing that I have an end game option. When/if it all gets to be too much, as determined by me, I will make arrangements to fly to Switzerland. I will enjoy a few days as a tourist and then visit an organization that will give me enough barbiturates to down an elephant. They stir you up a glass of Gee, A Nap Sounds Good About Now, invite you to drink it of your own accord and they will put on music of your choice. But what song would I want for my closing credits? “Hallelujah” seems like a solemn choice, but should it be the Leonard Cohen original, Jeff Buckley, Rufus Wainwright or k.d. lang? Perhaps a little “Lust For Life”? Too much kick drum? Can I look at what other people chose? I don’t want it to be like karaoke where you think “Damn, somebody just did “I Want To Break Free”. It’s my jam, but everyone just heard it!”  I can’t possibly throw in the towel until I decide on that. And I still must make up twenty more slogans for the event itself. So far I only have “No Need For A Swiss Watch Cuz Time’s Up”, “Final Fondue Farewell” and “Last Major Decision, Now Available With Chocolate.” I recognize that these need work and I will not give up until one or more of them are perfected. And don’t even get me started on what I might wear.

If you are screaming “THIS IS NOT FUNNY”, please get over it. It’s my death and I shall make jokes and throw glitter. If you would like your death to be a somber occasion, I will abide. I will wear black and be mournful and learn “Ave Maria” on the kazoo if it moves you. But please offer me the respect you would give your family dog in regards to pulling the plug when there’s no quality of life.

Bring all your memories of me to my official after(life) party. There will be a taco truck, margarita machines, and fart noise contests. (Dale, please tell everyone I retired as reigning champion) No dress code, in fact, let’s go with “clothing optional”, because why not stir some shit up. And let there be CALEXICO!

(I’m not here to have an ethical debate about suicide. This is voluntary assistance with dying, a completely separate decision in my book. If you would not do this if you were me, then by all means, if you are to inhabit my body in some upcoming Freaky Friday scenario, please attempt to ride out the storm. May I suggest getting a head start on the Morse code blinking?)

For this birthday, I hereby commit to choosing life at every opportunity. Even when I feel 158 instead of 58, when Parkinson’s decides to slam dance me onto the bathroom floor, when I have a public ugly cry sitting on my camp chair that I carry with me in case my feet fail when I run errands. My vibe is now more kooky middle school art teacher than sneering punk princess, but I still have some arthritic inner middle finger left to share with the world. I consider that an artistically challenging and meaningful life plan.

I mean, sure, the world is full of people who cheat lonely people out of their last dollar via text message, grown men who ride their bikes on the sidewalk, mediocre $22 salads, public FaceTimers on full volume, the idiocy and hatred that is the fucking comment section, people who eye roll you when you almost collide because they are mesmerized by their electronic pacifier and soulless sheeple who are so entrenched in the sexist, racist “good old days” that they’ve bought the snake oil of a monster who wants to break the spirit of this country and plow through everything of value to benefit an elite few and feed his man-baby ego. In case I’m being too subtle….

However.

The world also has pregnancy pillows (side sleepers, treat yourself), Trader Joe’s Marula facial oil ($6.99!), dark chocolate tahini ganache tortes with flaky salt (recipe upon request), French bulldog puppies, the poetry of Andrea Gibson and Warsan Shire, the smell of hyacinth after a rain shower, the MeSsy podcast (obsessed with Christina Applegate’s heartbreaking honesty), cute kiddos more than willing to high five, Hanif Abdurraqib discussing anything, falling asleep to baby kisses on the forehead, Aimee Mann’s gorgeous voice singing Aimee Mann’s flawlessly twisted lyrics, the first bite of a perfectly cooked short rib, noise cancelling headphones, outfits that feel like pajamas but look like you give a shit, housemates that ensure you come home to a made bed if you cut out for the day with your sheets in dryer, Richard Ayode being Richard Ayode, people who say ‘please” and “thank you” and “perhaps I was wrong”, friends who tell you how much they love you every time you catch up. AND a new and improved chance to save us from an authoritarian hellscape in 94 days, but who’s counting. 

And there is Substack. I hardly wrote a word in the last six years, assuming Parkinson’s had put an end to it. My friend Rebecca’s mother gifted me a psychic reading as a New Year’s gift during a Santa Fe vacation in January, my first ever. Elissa Heyman (psychic extraordinaire) told me I was ready to be creative again and a new path would soon be mine to identify. A month or so later, my pal Melissa suggested I follow her on Substack so she could share stuff with me there and maybe someday I might want to post something? Six months later, I could not be happier. I love this platform; I am 100% myself here in a way that has been nothing short of transcendent. I wake up and scroll through poems and photos and spend hours reading fantastic points of view. I am able to express myself here to my closest friends and people I will most likely never meet. It turns my “I can only be horizontal” days into artistic opportunities.

The women of Substack have been most generous with their support and inspiration: many thanks to Julia Hubbel, Ally Hamilton, Kari Bentley-Quinn, Lauren Hough, Charlotte Clymer, Dina Alvarez, Sherry McGuinn, Hanne Blank Boyd, Kimberly Warner, Kate Mapother, Caroline of Talking to Myself, and Anna Pulley for putting out magic material that fuels me to keep going. I discover new voices I admire every day. To the marvelous Jody Day who recommended my “trenchant gallows humour”, sláinte. I raise a glass to your devotion to being the best of mothers to all of your childless disciples and never letting us lose sight of our value.

To all my subscribers, THANK YOU SO MUCH. I feel honored you would give me your time and your attention as I consider them to be precious and valuable. And I will always endeavor not to waste them.

This year is shaping up to be a quiet one, so the birthday deal is basic: channel the spirit of my first rotation of the sun and lose my shit at the sight of cake.

#butterballbabypoweredbycake