Fine, I'll Be 60.

Thoughts on my six decades of doing this thing called life

Prez O stopped by on his way to the Medicare office as he turns a cool 65 today.

Today I am 60 fucking years old. I have never been one to sweat milestone birthdays, but the lead up to this one gave me a major case the grumps.

But I’m here to report in all caps that MY DEPRESH IS IN REMISH!

Not sure where to give credit for my new attitude (besides Patti Labelle, obvi) but here’s the breakdown.

Visited with the Medication Management Madame. I’m always thrown off by people who are ALL BUSINESS. I don’t need the psych med lady to do a tight five but a 24/7 straight line mouth is daunting for me. She recommended I bump up my current dose of happy pills to a level that was above the usual but not “unheard of.” I tried it for a week and I felt like I’d rather be desperately sad for all eternity than feel that way. I felt like my brain was shorting out and arcing sparks. Already have electrical power, no need for any more questionable heat and light. Next! (her notes from the meeting were unintentionally hilarious, such as “Denies having children,” and that my objective affect was “mildly euthymic.” Say what?)

After that good time, I focused on a suggestion that I look into hormone replacement therapy. I went online and talked with the folks at Midi. After getting a thumbs up from my neuro and having some lab work done, I started on a low dose of transdermal estrogen. I am pleased to report that I no longer feel like ripping everyone’s face off. In fact I recently began exercising willingly, I instigated social plans, and even a trip to the airport where I was in close proximity to screaming children put me in a “Well, isn’t that annoying” mood as opposed to shaky, dissociated, and ready to purchase an assault rifle. PROGRESS.

The woman at Midi asked me if I suffered from low libido…I told her “suffering” was not the operative word. In fact I considered it a “feature,” not a symptom and I wish it would have happened long ago so I could have accomplished more instead of being distracted by dumb boys. (Disclaimer: NOT ALL BOYS, just the dumb ones)

I’m reminded of a friend who rode motorcycles and took a class specifically for women and two-wheeled vehicle safety. The instructor told them that women are statistically more likely to be seriously injured in motorcycle accidents than men as their impulse is to commit to the entire ugly experience. In other words, men tend to bail from the bike at the first sign of trouble whereas women are more likely to be there until the bitter end, death-gripping the handlebars. Do with that information what you will.

Personally I see it as a metaphor for what time has taught me, to jump free early rather than committing to the entire calamity. I spent decades being the one to hang on waaaayyyy too long, convinced I would get extra credit for being there amidst the smoldering wreckage. So much dignity and emotional pain can be spared by not letting rose-colored glasses obscure the ability to see red flags. There’s no more “benefit of the doubt” applied when dealing with grown ass folks who should know better. Life is short, particularly in the higher digit years and wasting time on people who have proven themselves to be chronically problematic is not good time management. They are not necessarily bad people, just not right for me.

I don’t feel the need to spin everything funny anymore. Some situations just don’t call for it. Plus I have enough sense now to acknowledge I use comedy as a crutch to soften the blow of tough talk. Probably why straight mouthed meds lady made me feel weird. Making fun of myself in the face of difficult themes is my clever yet unsuccessful disguise.

I no longer pursue BFFs as that last “F” never seems to work out. In the past, I almost always have had a person who was my ride or die, text me when you get home, first person I tell all things good and bad type of human by my side. Most of those relationships have ended badly. I suspect that intensity is not sustainable for me long term and I tend to sabotage things so I can be freeeeeee. I know I do this with romantic relationships, so why not include everyone else too? I’m certain I’ve been chasing intense love of all kinds to fill an emotional black hole caused by childhood neglect. Ugh. Coming to this realization sucked ass but being able to generate emotional comfort and support internally feels triumphant.

Especially in this Reign of Idiots chunk of the timeline, I accept that a C+ is still a passing grade. Particularly if it’s something I’m not passionate about doing. Perfectionism is overrated and a sign of dysfunctional interpersonal dynamics. Conditional approval loves to demand excellence. It’s a master class in self acceptance to recognize that some tasks don't deserve all your precious laser-focused energy. If the worst thing that could happen is no one is going to ask me cut up a mango again, I can live with that.

I remind myself that art is joyous and everyone can do it. My friend Wendy mentioned recently that when she sketches out in the world adults rarely acknowledge her doing it but children often do. I replied that it made sense as kids were more likely to spend time drawing. Wendy said that all kids draw but we only encourage young people to continue doing it if they are talented by traditional standards. It doesn’t matter if you can’t sell it, do it because it’s fucking fun and it’s good for you. I’ve been trying to learn the ukulele now for over a year, I’m happy to just make a joyful noise these days. No reason to give up, although I don’t subject others to my practice sessions. I’m not a monster.

I quit wearing makeup for the most part. If Pamela Anderson can take her bare-ass face on the red carpet then I am not sweating putting on eyeliner for a trip to CVS. I put on just enough to prove I give a shit when I go to work and on an occasional social outing, but otherwise it’s a big pain in the ass to apply and remove, especially with Parkie hands. I’m pleased to report that the sight of my naked sixty year old face has not killed anyone thus far.

Tonight I will be eating dinner at a favorite place with a favorite friend and that is more than enough hoopla for this year’s solar rotation. I am pacing myself; I hope my desire to be out and about remains steady. I recently visited the Obama Presidential Center and was so impressed by the positive energy and the hardcore good democratic feels going on there.

With Mimi T aka Punky Brewster

The museum is sold out for several months so I’ll need to go back and check that out but it was a gorgeous day to be amongst good people soaking in the Chicago sunshine.

Torch Song, created by artist Alison Saar in the Women’s Garden.

People waiting to get a special Obama library card

BOOK NERD HAPPY FACE!

And check out what we found on quick visit to the gift shop….

WHAT KIND OF WOKE ASS BULLSHIT IS THIS? AVERT YOUR EYES, KIDS.

With the power of supplemental estrogen and the knowledge of six decades spent trying to get a fucking grip, I understand that some days you’re at the Obama Presidential Center on a Lou Reed approved perfect day, other days you’re with screaming children at gate A4B on a 4 hour delay. Some days you get to see the Chicago Symphony Orchestra rehearsing Gershwin’s “An American In Paris” in the park, and other days you’re getting your elbow stuck between the seat and the wall of the CTA train car to the point of CTA calling EMS and taking the train out of service until your housemate pours enough hand sanitizer on your arm to allow you to wriggle free. (His comment: “Well, you’re never boring.)

Ok, that last sentence I managed to do on the same day, but I’m an overachiever. Please don’t try this at home!

My 60 years thus far haven’t been easy, but I’ve managed to live pretty large. I raise a glass to however many days, weeks, months, years we all have left, Love Thugs. Let’s take a page from Mr. Rogers and soak them steamy summer tootsies with a friend.

💜 Stay cool, y’all. 💜