Stuck in the Middle

     While the universe christened my personal summer as The Summer of Humble, my husband Mike termed (somewhat optimistically) 2015 as our Summer of Social. We had high hopes for lots of cultural outings and merriment with friends. Unfortunately, Mike's work schedule's been significantly busier than planned, so more often than not, I've been making the trips to outdoor events, museums, and the theater without him. One July Friday, though, we managed to check out the evening music series at some beautiful outdoor gardens together.

     Sonnenberg Gardens (and Mansion State Historic Park) is a 50-acre estate in the Finger Lakes that houses a greenhouse complex, nine formal garden areas, including a Japanese Garden and a classic style rose garden, and an impressive 40-room Queen Anne-style mansion.  In the summer months, they string colored lights along their meandering pathways, and every Friday night through July and August, guests are able to walk the grounds and enjoy live music under the stars. 

     The band was set up on the wrap-around veranda of the mansion, and was cranking out classic Rolling Stones as we arrived. Most folks were sitting on folding chairs on the lawn directly in front, leaving a bit of room for dancing if the mood struck. Mike and I hung back a bit and set up farther out in the gardens where the crowd was thinner but the view was still good. We spread out our picnic blanket, got comfortable in our lawn chairs, and secretly sipped our Nalgene bottle full of homemade margaritas.

     The members of the group, like a significant swath of the crowd, looked to be in their late 50s/early 60s - Four guys sporting a healthy mix of gray, white and balding with varying eras of facial hair. They played just about everything spanning the last half century, and what they may have sometimes lacked in technique and pitch, they definitely made up for in enthusiasm. Mike and I figured that these friends had started playing together in high school and had just carried on for the next 40+ years. I appreciate that.  Nice work if you can get it!

     The band was having a great time, and so was the crowd. Most folks stayed seated to enjoy the entertainment, but there were a few pockets of daredevils that frequently jumped up and hit the dance floor. I got out of my chair, too, but stayed near our spot and enjoyed our two-person dance party. I felt like a cooler, younger kid with better moves, and I smirked a bit as I typed an update on my Facebook page:

     I leaned over and shared the sentiment with Mike, and he laughed and replied, "Steph, you are middle aged."

I had no idea.

Seriously.  When did that happen?

     What constitutes “middle-aged?” The U.S. Census Bureau doesn’t define the term “middle age” anywhere on their website, but their data refer to the group before “elderly” - ages 45-64 - as “the older-working population.” (I’m going to get that on a t-shirt: I’m not middle-aged, I’m the older-working population!) Merriam-Webster.com first defines middle age as “the period in a person's life from about age 40 to about age 60,” but then right below, it offers the FULL definition as “the period of life from about 45 to about 64.”  (The dictionary needs an editor, apparently.) Psychologist Erik Erikson defined middle adulthood as between 40-65.

     All of this is to say, none of this looks good for me.  

     I know this was not a sudden occurrence; it was, however, a sudden revelation. 

     It was a Twilight Zone episode:

     I awaken in a field, full of smiling, doughy white folks in long khaki shorts, solid cotton t-shirts, and comfortable shoes. They are gathered in lawn chairs, bobbing their heads to the music, when suddenly the band kicks into a warbly, non-ironic version of “Play That Funky Music.” They glow with nostalgia, and like one somewhat awkward blob, they rise from chairs and motion each other to the open area. They do their best to inhabit the music with their semi-balanced side to side rocking, enthusiastic shoulder thrusting, and clapping on the first and third beats of the music.  And just when I feel myself recoiling in horror, starting to yell, “Two and four! Two and four!” they notice me.  They reach out their arms to me, beckoning. Welcoming. I look down at myself and realize that I, too, am wearing a light pink cotton t-shirt, and khaki shorts.  It doesn’t matter that they’re green; a wild color can’t save me now. They recognize me.  

I’m one of them.  

I’M ONE OF THEM.

     You know, I actually thought I’d outgrown self-deception and denial, but here I am, full-on SMACKED again.

     And this is so awfully predictable for the way my life goes.  I start to look down my nose at someone else, and I spot myself in the crowd.  There is no getting around it.  I am everything and everyone I judge. I am.

     Needless to say, I got a lot of great Facebook responses that night, but the most thought-provoking came from my friend, Peggy: 

"Silly lady... you need to be dancing and not watching... When you're dancing you feel ageless ... Never mind what it looks like... There comes a time when you stop thinking about that and just do it!!!"

Peggy's absolutely right.  For most of my life, I've managed to march to the beat of my own drummer (while clapping on 2 and 4).  Seems I'm overdue to embrace middle age with that same spirit.