It’s been a tough one for me to acknowledge, and my first instinct was to slip across the threshold quietly, with minimal fuss. But my sibs and friends wouldn’t let that happen.
So there we were, in a multi-bedroom, four story mountain house in Vail, drinking cocktails, cooking together, laughing, and celebrating. My sisters teamed up with my pal Joey to find a rental, and get a crowd up the hill, and my middle sister, Sarah, and her husband raided Costco for enough food to keep us noshing all weekend long.
That Friday morning, after I dropped Simone off at school, we gathered at the house to pack up and hit the road. My sister Karen had picked up our cousin at the airport, but what I didn’t know until he magically walked through the door, was that one of my favorite people in the whole world had flown in from SF to join us.
Christopher was there at the beginning of my single days — living with Simone and me in the big blue house, his friendly Bernese Mountain Dog a constant cuddly presence in our lives. And when he moved out to California, he was roommates with my sister Karen for years. That made it awesome for my many visits out there.
He and I were the first to arrive at the mansion, hitting a fat-flaked snowstorm as we drove over the pass and down into the city. The aspens were at peak-autumn, entire hillsides aflame with deep gold and brassy vermillion. Near-whiteout conditions gave way to soap-flake flurries as we ambled up the long driveway to the massive brick and wood home.
That whole afternoon was taken up by arrivals — and surprise guests — every one of them there to help me celebrate my momentous birthday.
One of the more magical moments happened as evening approached. The sky had cleared to pure blue, and the snow had melted off the golden leaves outside the picture windows. We had a Pandora station playing Coltrane, and were drinking our first or second rounds of Manhattans when “Take Five” by Brubeck started playing — my dad’s favorite song. Just like that time in NYC, it felt like a sign my father was there with us.
The weekend was filled with long walks, multi-branching conversations with people stepping in and out of the discussion as they had something to add or take in, a constant array of food and drink on the massive kitchen island, games, a terrible jigsaw puzzle, hot tub shenanigans, and lots and lots of hugs and words of love and appreciation.
Only a total asshole would decline an outpouring of joy and affection like that.
So rather than sublimate the emotions, I’m trying to own them. I’m doing my best to embrace being fifty.
FIFTY.
It’s an upsetting number — it’s just so big and round, and full of implications.
I hesitate and take a deep breath when people ask how old I am. I thought about changing my age on dating apps by a couple years, just so I’d still show up in the under-50 search parameters (I’d put my actual age in the bio).
But you know what? Fuck that.
I’m fifty years old, and I know how to live well.
I’m not slowing down, I’m not giving in, and I’m not letting up.
In those first few years of my mid-30s, when I was freshly single and finding my way — as a bachelor, a father, a friend, and a man — I didn’t know what I wanted. My behavior pendulum swung wide between soused off-duty nights and attentive parenting weekends, knocking relationships sideways, swinging back through the middle ground for a short time, before drifting wildly in another direction. Was I a hard-drinking rake? A decent, but confused, single dad? Was I a dedicated entrepreneur, or an opportunistic hedonist? The answer was yes, all of those. And the more the pendulum swung, the less I was able to contain the disparate aspects of my life, embracing the highest highs and desperately sucked into the lowest lows.
But eventually, I found a way to level things off — not balancing them, per se — but moderating the extremes. In fact, my mantra became, “All things in moderation, even moderation.” I learned a few things along the way.
It’s possible to be a joyful bon vivant and a responsible parent.
It’s possible to be a mature adult and a whimsical man.
It’s possible to make the most out of every day, but still live in the everyday.
And it’s possible to say, “Screw it” and jump the rails and surrender to whatever happens next.
So, yeah. I’m fucking 50, and that’s how it is. I joke that it’s better than the alternative, and that’s true. But it’s also better (for me) than the alternative so many people in my generation live — structured, balanced, even-keeled lives of quiet contentment punctuated by the occasional big night out or trip-of-a-lifetime. It works for them, and I respect that. I love when they come out and let loose with my band of carousers, and I love putting my feet up at their homes and watching football together.
It’s not the life for me, but the benefits are worthy and sustainable.
I know all too well the consequences of my own lifestyle — the burnt mornings; the solitary slog up my stairs to a forlorn bedroom; the days of stress and minor terror when a client goes sideways and I’m watching our revenue shift in the wrong direction; my mom asking me if I’m happy; my daughter asking if I’m lonely. Real pain, real sadness, real darkness. And I acknowledge that the life I lead can also be an obstacle to finding someone right for me.
But those rough times tend to be offset by the good stuff — the magic of a surprisingly fun date that lasts well into the next morning; all-night benders with my best friends (a lovely mix of men and women) followed by texts of bemused woe the next day; bad decisions that turn out to be ridiculously fun (or end up as cringe-worthy stories to keep my pals entertained); pj Saturdays, when I don’t leave the house or interact with another human being all day; last-minute escapes; eating my way through a foreign city; shots with the bartenders; and long, lazy, happy days with the girl, full of food and flicks and laughter.
That’s the life I choose for myself at half a century. I’m going to keep this train going.
And, yes, of course; I’d sure love to share it with that one right girl.
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