The Writing On The Wall

This year Mark turns 50. He has never ever EVER talked about aging. I'm the one that complains about wrinkles and sagging and grey hair and "did I do it right" and "what will I do without my kids at home" and "I HATE the silence".  He comforts me with "I'm excited for the next part of our lives", or "Oh, Poop (yes, he calls me Poop) you're a Spring chicken" or "It's just a number".

Last night Mark was talking about turning 50. He loves to golf. Golfs every chance he can get. He enrolls in as many tournaments that I allow and works daily to get his handicap as low as possible. I will NEVER forget his first tournament. I don't know what his handicap was, but I know it was in the double digits. I couldn't believe that he had signed up for a tournament. He's always been fearless that way. He's a go-for-it kind of guy, whereas I'll plan and plan and plan and then not do a dang thing about it. All talk - no action. Yep. That's me.

The morning of the tournament arrived. Clubs were clean and organized in his golf bag. The bag was loaded with PLENTY of balls and tees to get him through the hazards. Mark showered and I set his clothes out. Mark is known to wear long johns, shorts, work boots and sweatshirt. It is MANDATORY that I monitor his "I'm-going-out-in-public" wardrobe. I kissed him for luck and sent him on his way.

He had the time of his life. Didn't win. Didn't place. Teed up on the first hole, waggled the club, swung a couple of practice swings, stepped up to the ball, swung with all his might...and whiffed it. Stepped up to the ball AGAIN and officially began his golf tournament. He enjoyed his golfing companions and loved the pristine condition of the course.

At the course yesterday, it was brought to Mark's attention that he will be golfing tournaments this year as a Senior. What? We aren't seniors. Did I say that loud enough? WE AREN'T SENIORS! Ugh. All the age, all the DENIAL of age hit him upside the head and landed him smack dab in the middle of reality. 

Years ago, I read Tuesdays With Morrie. Loved it. Morrie knew he was going to die from ALS and decided to hold a "living" funeral for himself. He felt it was "unfair" that we aren't around to hear what the people we love say about us.

Mitch Album wrote:
The New Year came and went. Although he never said it to anyone, Morrie knew this would be the last year of his life. He was using a wheelchair now, and he was fighting time to say all the things he wanted to say to all the people he loved. When a colleague at Brandeis died suddenly of a heart attack, Morrie went to his funeral. He came home depressed.
"What a waste," he said. "All those people saying all those wonderful things, and Irv never got to hear any of it."
Morrie had a better idea. He made some calls. He chose a date. And on a cold Sunday afternoon, he was joined in his home by a small group of friends and family for a "living funeral." Each of them spoke and paid tribute to my old professor. Some cried. Some laughed. One woman read a poem:
"My dear and loving cousin ...Your ageless heart as you move through time, layer on layer, tender sequoia ..."
Morrie cried and laughed with them. And all the heartfelt things we never get to say to those we love, Morrie said that day. His "living funeral" was a rousing success.
Only Morrie wasn't dead yet. In fact, the most unusual part of his life was about to unfold.

I think about this now. I think about age and the pros and cons that are attached to it. It's okay that Mark is turning 50. I suppose that it's okay that I'm right behind him in the age department. 

I think about Mark's first tournament. I laugh with him about whiffing the ball and how embarrassed he was and how he shook it off and told the guys in the group "Well, glad I got that out of the way" and continued to play the 18 holes and continued to laugh and joke with the group while simply being proud of himself for doing the "unheard of" for him.

I have stepped up to my own ball a few times. I have whiffed it more than once. In fact, I continue to do so at times. I'm frustrated with my inability to learn from some of my mistakes and create a better game for myself. I'll take the lessons that Mark has taught me and I'll put the mistakes behind me. I'll enjoy the sun on my shoulders and the camaraderie of those around me. I long to live my life so that those standing at my funeral have good things to say about me. 

"Everyone knows they're going to die, but nobody believes it.... So we kid ourselves about death.... But there's a better approach. To know you're going to die, and to be prepared for it at any time....Do what the Buddhists do...ask, Is today the day? Am I ready? Am I doing all I need to do? Am I being the person I want to be?”  

I think Morrie had it right.

Conversation Hearts

When I was a kid, I absolutely-positively-without-a-shadow-of-a-doubt LOVED conversation hearts. I would wait patiently while my mom or dad would place them on the counter at the checkout register and then would run to the car so I could eagerly open them on my way home. There was a method to eating the flavored chalky goodness that I adored. The orange ones were my favorite, so they were saved for last. The white hearts were boring so they went first, followed by pink, yellow, green and purple. One at a time, after the message was scrutinized, I would pop them in my mouth and savor each and every one.

I still buy them. I don't like the flavor as much. But I buy them because for some reason they make me feel good. Those stupid hearts send me back to a time that I like to remember. Therefore, once a year I grab a box of conversation hearts, read each one and sort through the ickiness in my past to land in a time where I was special. I must have been cool, awesome and rad. Those hearts told me so.

I'm not a huge fan of Valentines Day. I'm not the girl that needs to be pampered and spoiled because some person decided that it was necessary to commercialize love. We typically stay home and cook dinner here. I am perfectly fine with that.

This year for Valentines, I made Mark a picture to hang in his bike shop. A few years back, Tyson and Goose both drew out for their muzzle loader BIG Elk tags. This was a big deal in the Deason home. Many hours (and dollars) were spent planning and preparing for this hunt. Although it was exciting and cool for the boys, I think Mark was the most affected. He was giddy with excitement. 

Tyson ended up shooting his elk. From all stories, it was an amazing shot. Everyone was high-fiving and laughing and posing for the photos shot by Uncle Mike. I got hold of the pictures and made a movie/slideshow of their experience set to "Wild Eyed Southern Boys" by .38 Special. To this day it's one of Mark's happiest memories. He'll watch the movie and say EVERY SINGLE TIME "that was one of my happiest memories". And he means it.

At the end of a movie, I put a quote by William Shakespeare:

When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry.

That ending screen from the movie is what I made into a picture for Mark to hang in his shop.

I think about how simple love really is. The unedited-easy-to-read version fits on a tiny, heart shaped candy. 

I probably will never be a huge fan of Valentines Day. I don't need the flowers and gifts showered upon me. I will grab my box of conversation hearts and read each individual one and remember why I love and am loved. I will remember that there isn't an item in the world that will top pure happiness and unfettered love. The love that a father feels for his son is a good place to start.

Forever 17

Yesterday was my birthday. I received a HUGE bonus birthday because I LOVE the Super Bowl and it was on my birthday this year. Yay me!  We have a huge shindig. Lots and lots and LOTS of people come to watch the game and I get to pretend that it's a birthday party for me! haha  Win! win!

As I was doing party preparations (I don't know why I clean the house before everyone comes, but I do) I had my IPod cranked and "Forever 17" by Tim McGraw came on.  I was belting the lyrics and thinking about "life". I just turned 49. That's a bit of a jump from 17 but man! I remember being 17.

I do enjoy the freedom that comes with age. I have my own style. I'm not tied in to trends that I can't afford. I know the importance of being kind, yet I know when it's time to stand up for myself or someone around me. And I am not afraid to do so.  I love MY music. I listen to country, 80's rock, pop, classical, any genre I am feeling when I am feeling it. Yeah, growing up has it's advantages.

However, there is nothing better than reminiscing. Mark was (and still is) my boyfriend. I named each stuffed animal on my bed. I enjoyed school and the friends and activities that went along with attending high school. I spent hours trying to figure out the Rubiks cube. How about parachute pants? LOVED them! I would set my tape recorder up by my radio and wait and wait and wait for my favorite song to start. Hear it. Tape it. Then I would play it over and over and over until I had every word down so I could sing along. Watched Diff' rent Strokes (What you talking about Willis?) Fantasy Island (Da plane, da plane!), and wished I could be Vicki on the Love Boat. I had a poster of E.T. in my room and I thought John Stamos was pretty hot.

More of the "real" stuff that happened. According to liketotally80s.com:

The advances in technology that began in previous years continue to gain speed in 1982 with the release of the Commodore 64 computer and the first CD player by Sony. The shift is so significant that Time Magazine names The Computer as the person of year in 1982. Other big news items include the opening of Epcot Center, the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the Tylenol scare, the death of John Belushi, and the birth of Prince William. It was a great year in movies with ET, Fast Times, the Wall all at the box office. Olivia Newton John had us getting physical and Joan Jett had us loving rock n roll. But, Michael Jackson ruled the music scene and the airwaves with Thriller, which became the best selling album of all in time. 1982 . . . we embrace you with Open Arms.

Ahhhhhhhhh...1982.