MUSINGS version 5.0

Death is the new 40

-me

In January of 2008, I went to see a friend’s choir concert in Montreal. The stage manager was a former student of mine, who had been a delightful teenager, and had turned into a delightful adult. It was her birthday (23 or 24) and I joined in the festivities. (I guarantee you that when she woke up that morning that she never thought she’d be spending her b-day getting sloshed with her high school choir teacher!). I ended up talking to this guy who was in the show. He was funny, polite, charming very cute and very well spoken. I assumed (and never assume, cause it makes an …) he was in his mid 20’s, which though a little young, is totally within my dating range.. Well, we ended up talking about Facebook (doesn’t everybody?). I mentioned that since my 20^th high school reunion was coming up, it was great to get back in touch with some old friends. He looked quizzically at me and asked me what year I graduated. I said 1988. He paused meaningfully, and replied with a guilty smirk “I was born in 1988”.  Daddy felt a little old that night. Apparently, 37 is the new 50.

Am I old? Despite the popularity of such adages as “You’re only as old as you feel” and “He’s young at heart”, they’re all fallacies. People can be surprised by your age – without false modesty, people often guess my age as 6 – 10 years younger – but when all is said and done, 39 is still 39 and always will be. Well at least until next March, when it’s 40.  (I’m obviously totally obsessed with looking younger, mostly because when I date [which is remarkably infrequently], I’ve tended to date younger guys. Not THAT much younger, but still…)

I bring this up because I realized recently that most of my friends on board are on average at least 10 years younger than me. True, there are exceptions, but most of my current posse wasn’t born yet when “Synchronicity” was released. It’s never bothered any of the involved parties, so why ruminate on the subject?

A lot of crew on ship tend to be young. Kids out of college, young turks on a summer job, getting paid to travel and see the wonders of the world (from the Dardanelles to the mountains of Peru). Life is a big fun party. Beer and hooch in the crew bar is cheap and plentiful, everyone is a little looser, you meet people from all over the world – it’s really a great job. But those of us in our 30’s or so usually come on ships because we need to find ourselves. I’ve met divorcés and divorcées, a psychologist, a couple of lawyers, at least 3 ex-ministers and most recently, a clown (no joke). It might seem like an odd place for introspection, but in some ways it’s perfect. When I started on ships 4 years ago, no one knew who I was. I was a clean slate. I could have been anyone. More importantly, I could have chosen to be anyone. I choose to be myself. A 37 year old overweight divorcé with 3 dogs. People liked me. (Well, most did. I was branded as ‘difficult to work with’ by a couple of people in my former company who shall remain nameless and hopefully, away from me.) I would venture a guess that about 1/3 of my 845 Facebook friends are ship folk. And I look and feel better than I ever have. I quit smoking, I’ve been taking care of my skin, I eat well and I feel really good. Best of all. I fit in - in some ways for the first time in my life. I fit in with these whippersnappers who don’t remember the Reagan years  or “Manimal” or “Kid Creole and the Coconuts” or Rubik Cubes or leg warmers. And I’m having a blast.

I do my best to keep up with the Joneses. I go out a bit more than I would. Drink more than I should. I act a little crazier, I’m a little more spontaneous. And at this point in my 39 years, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Life is good. No, life is great.