The True Fifty

On our summer vacation this year, I learned that after forty-one comes fifty.

Somewhere in the middle of Vermont, Kelly and I decided to rent kayaks, to paddle and drift two hours down the river despite the rotator cuff strain in my left shoulder.  I adapted my stroke to avoid aggravating the strain.  Our “drift” wound under bridges and around low-hanging branches, widely splayed across the water, jutting out from centuries-old trees.

The following week, reunited with my daughter after her ten days at Camp Grandma, I lifted her into the air with kisses and delight, and lowered her into a plump soft chair with a big flop – same as I do every couple of weeks at home, except that I held onto her a little too long (story of my life!) and wrenched my back on the way down.  Kelly suggested I had an image of myself as a much younger person than I truly am.  Yes, my image is from last year!  But while I leaned against a heating pad in my sister-in-law’s cabin, propped up by two fluffy pillows, and my daughter played “babysitter” with her cousins in the next room, I realized that, in fact, fifty comes after forty-one.  Right after forty-one.  Am I entering an age of necessary physical caution, or do I just need to kayak more often?

I once dated a woman whose mom climbed a tree – the same tree – every birthday.   I know she made it to at least seventy-eight.  Suddenly, the wisdom of such a tradition becomes clear to me.  I mean, eventually I could prepare all year for such a thing!  She’s not just the quirky and super cool mom of an ex-girlfriend anymore; now she’s my role model in a fresh new way.

Could I make it up a tree each year?  Maybe for me, it will be kayaking.

I used to dream of hang-gliding, but that feels a bit out of reach to me at this point.  We’ll see.  If I can kayak myself upstream to the true fifty, maybe I’ll be strong enough by then to hang-glide.  Wouldn’t THAT be a glorious adventure?