AN OPEN LETTER TO LIFE AT 50
I wrote this letter to myself as I turned 50, an experience that turned out to be utterly bizarre. Some years on, my thoughts still feel relevant. Here’s to all those riding the mid-life wave, this letter is also for you.
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If you were born in the 1960’s, especially in America, you were a baby of Kennedy, King, and the pill. A toddler of Hendrix, the Beatles and Simon & Garfunkel. A kid of Off the Wall, Dynasty, Love Boat, Fantasy Island and Chia Pets. Smurfs and Beanie Babies. We watched the Wall come crashing down and we cheered. We watched the Challenger come floating down, with our hearts in our throats. 50 when we were kids meant...Archie Bunker. Or Phylis Diller or maybe Walter Cronkite... So 50 is supposed to be old. Established. Sorted. And totally, utterly, past it. So finding myself turning 50 is an odd sort of experience.
30 passed easily, I remember buying a ridiculously overpriced ring for myself at Harvey Nichols - I have no idea where it is. At 40 I was in a studio laying tracks to my first, and who knows, maybe only, short film. It was equal parts thrilling and terrifying. My young and ludicrously talented Cinematographer, in the years that followed, has shot three Oscar nominated films in a row. At 40 I left my beloved London. A city I fell in love with before I was in double digits. I told my sister I would live in London and drive a motorcycle and go to NYC on the weekends. Where I would keep either a blue 1964 mustang or a red corvette. Yes. I really was born in the sixties. And I really did grow up on Long Island... At 40 I thought I was at a career crossroad. After the earlier high-speed ride on the Autobahn of my overachieving path had run out of road. Tufts, Harvard, Cambridge and LSE, oh my! And instead, I focused on the frustrating, take me out of my head and drag me kicking and screaming, yet also with bated breath, launch into the utterly wonderful adventure of being a mother. Where I encountered the most astonishing person I'll ever meet. I hacked away the brambles and overgrown vines of my intuition and lay my heart on the path. I hoped it wouldn't get lost or crushed or forgotten. I met myself on several roads less travelled since then. And again while my baby, then toddler daughter fell asleep staring into my eyes night after night. I like to think that somewhere deep inside her, those moments will bubble to the surface when she is tired or weary or defeated, with a deep feeling of knowing how loved she has always been... In those ten years I loved and lost and dared to start again. After my house of cards came crashing down, throwing them up in the air and seeing if I could learn a new game. No more Go Fish. Maybe Poker this time... 50 is being lucky enough to have ageing parents who are still incredibly healthy of body and mind, and yet watching them walk slower, worry about catastrophes that will never happen, and treasure their grandchildren with an abandon that they never had with my sister or myself.
50 means getting my hair coloured every month (sometimes by my teenager) and having a tweezer in my bag at all times for stray hairs that spring from my face seemingly overnight that scream, "whiskers!" with the cackling voice of a hag with tricks up her sleeve. It means posture and carriage have suddenly become important to me, as I look at my thirty years my senior mother who carries herself like a brown-skinned Zsa Zsa Gabor. I need to raise my game, like yesterday. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, please bless the spirit of Joseph Pilates and all his descendants who teach me on the reformer... I'm half way to 100. Which I have always been convinced I'd see. And now I'm thinking, wait, what?...but a deal is a deal. So, dear life, I figure I have at least...a couple grand passions left in me, so bring it on. And now that Alan Rickman has passed, that leaves...well, the rest of the male population. Not married and over 35, please... Probably another two careers, although this one will likely take me to my grave - luckily, I can multitask... There are food fights waiting for me, and singing at the top of my lungs at concerts, hands waving in the air, like well, a 50 year old... You may be young at heart, and ass, at 50. But its not exactly young. 50 ain't about youth. It can be beautiful. It can be powerful. It can be occasionally tired. Gin is involved. Prosecco flirts. And damn it, but tequila is committed.
At 50, and as blessed as I have been, you've lived long enough to have gotten the shit kicked out of you emotionally. A few times. And you have woken up to mornings so perfect you have to hold your breath because you can't believe it. You have been loved well and truly. You have have had your heart skip and flip and trade places with your stomach. You have spent time on a bathroom floor. You have had achievements. You've wondered what the hell life is all about. You've driven too fast in a car. You have been in at least one truly dodgy situation that you know by the grace of God, and the blessings upon the stupid, that you survived. You have had dreams that haven't come true. You have had dreams you haven't even let yourself speak about. And you have created things that you never saw coming that have astonished you. By 50, if you're still alive, you've experienced people dying. Maybe a lot. Maybe just one important person. Someone you know has had cancer. Maybe you. Maybe you have life insurance. A 401K. Or maybe no savings at all. But at 50 you know that money is important. And you also really get that the things that put a smile in your heart have no price tag.
So, 50, my new friend, I'd like to thank you for your perseverance. Your resilience. You sing to me, "don't kill my vibe", and I get it. You just want to be you. You don't want to be the new 40. Or whatever sounds cool. You, 50, are just what you are. 18250 days. 26,280,000 minutes. Bloody hell, imagine how many episodes of Friends that is... You've brought me a sense of gratitude for still being here. A sense of hope for what is still to come. A deep relief that I don't just think that what people think about me isn't my business, I know it. I get that I can't control the weather. Or if my hair will frizz. Or my thoughts half the time. Only what I'm prepared to bring to the party. 50 really gets that you can't authentically have the body of a 16 year old without being 16. Shudder. So my skin may not spring back as quickly, but my neither does my reluctance at vulnerability. I'll take that price any fucking day of the week. Confidence, peace and joy at 50 isn't about invincibility, its about surviving, thriving, and as Hallmarky as it sounds, its about being okay with not being okay, and knowing that pretty much, compassion solves just about everything. Well, and maybe a mojito. And a hug from my daughter. And a good Japanese brush pen. Or the Morphe 350 palette. Or laughing until someone yells, "stop, I'm going to pee!"...you see? 50 is pretty great. Happy Birthday to me.
Thanks 50,
Audrey
