This year I will be a Woman of a Certain Age, Reader. Now, I’m not normally one of those people who really get hung up on the aspect of getting older. Maybe because I’ve been limping along like an ol’ timer for the past 25 years, literally and figuratively, thanks to my “wow, this is really really bad arthritis for someone your age!” (an actual quote from my doctor) in my knees and feet, and now, much to my dismay, I see it creeping into a joint on both of my pointer fingers.
When I look down I’m beginning to see my grandmother.
Maybe those things happening at a young age make it easier to grow older without as much fret. I’ve already been dealing with this shit since I was in my twenties, I don’t associate the aches & pains as an old-age thing. The parts I really dislike about the aging process are more aligned with gray hairs and crows feet and the “what the hell has happened to my chest skin!*” moments.
Another reason I really refuse to allow myself to get hung up on how O.L.D. I am getting is that I’ve known too many people in my life who haven’t been offered the privilege of growing older. For me to sit here and deny that in November I will get to celebrate that I have had the opportunity to experience 50 years here on this planet, well, that’s really rude.
I’m not going to lie about my age.
I’m not going to pretend it’s not happening.
I’m not going to tip-toe around it and hope we can just quietly exist side-by-side.
I’ve decided to embrace the fuck outta this birthday.
There’s a particular ceremony that is called a Croning.
Reader, if you’ve never heard of a Croning ceremony it’s sort of like a big-girl birthday party that is ritualistic and inspiring, with nice things being said about her growing older and wiser, and it’s a specific way to acknowledge and embrace the aging process. Technically speaking, the title ‘Crone’ is a term of respect, to honor the latter years of a woman’s life and the inner power that ensues from this.
Now, I thought about that. It would be nice to have some sort of formal ceremony to acknowledge this milestone year. But a traditional croning just didn’t feel quite right for me.
I’m not wise.
I make irresponsible decisions (see: 8 cats. gambling jaunts. cake for breakfast – the list goes on…)
I don’t have a whole “inner power” thing, or an “outter bendy” thing, either. Hell, I can barely bend over most mornings to get my socks on. So that’s why flip flops are the perfect shoe option when turning 50, Reader. And that very knowledge pointed me in the right direction on how to usher in my 50th Year.
I’ve decided to celebrate with a Corona-ing.
Maybe I AM getting wiser after all.
My Corona-ing is going to happen in Cancun. Naturally.
Right Here. With this view:
In this suite: http://bcove.me/cy63zzje
Yep, that’s a jacuzzi on the patio. And one in the bathroom.
Do you see that spot of blue in the distance of the photo? That’s the swim-out pool, Reader.
I step out of my room. Onto the patio. And down into the pool. With a bottomless bucket of Coronas. Or whatever else should tickle my fancy.
I tell you this not to be an ugly braggart, Reader. But instead to point out options to growing older. See, 21-Year-Old-Me (or 29, or 39) couldn’t afford this sort of swanky-danky birthday-ing. I’m sure those birthdays involved beers or other adult beverages, at a local bar, and of course there was cake, and dancing, but then it was over and the only thing left was the harsh reality of morning and probably a little bit of shame.
Now? That I’m old enough, and with more credit than Younger Me’s, I can throw a proper Corona-ing.
If I do things right I should still have some morning shame, but I will merely have to re-baptize myself in the crystal-clear waters of my swim-out pool.
Come and join me**, Reader. Celebrate my Corona-ing with me! Dip your tootsies in the waters of my swim-out pool. My fancy-pants room sleeps three. Although you may want your own suite as I can’t be responsible if the shenanigans get out of control in my room. If I don’t break a hip, that is.
Growing old ain’t for sissies. But it can be so so so much fun with the proper piece of plastic, a room with a pool at my doorstep and a bottomless bucket of beers. And a deep appreciation for the luxury of getting to grow older.
*p.s. I know exactly what has happened to my chest skin: my one-sided love affair with the sun and how it really hates me back. No amount of repair serums has been able to battle that yet, so we are hanging all our hopes on Christie’s Miracles. If that doesn’t work, fuck it, my tits are the star of that show anyway.
**this really is an open invitation to join this Bang-Bang-Corona-ing-Birthday-Blitz. Let me know if you want details and I’ll hook you up. Unless you’re a a rapey-type or a murder-ie type, then this is a closed party and go read someone else’s blog. And ps, I will have a housesitter and ferocious cats on premises so don’t try to steal my stuff, Bad Guys.