Vacation. I'm On It.

My 40th birthday is Friday, the 20th. Less than a week away.

That's a pretty big deal in my opinion. I'm trying to embrace it, to be proud of it but my little pep talks haven't really worked. So, a few months ago when I began to contemplate the end of my 30's, I thought if I could do something over-the-top fantabulous perhaps I'd get past the knowledge that I'm aging and the fact that I'm not doing it quite as gracefully as I'd like.

Unfortunately, Common Sense - that rat bastard - stepped in and ungraciously reminded me that, since I'm chest-deep in debt reduction, money's tight. I didn't feel like I could take a big trip - although a 40th birthday road trip plan is still in preliminary talks between me and Acr0nym for later in the spring - and certainly not to Europe. I didn't have $5,000 on hand to spend on a blowout party. I didn't have extra cash to purchase something especially nice for myself...like a camera or a new laptop (this one is over 6 years old...keep your fingers crossed it doesn't bleed out on me anytime soon).

What I did have though was a little vacation time coming to me.

So...I'm on vacation. For a week - 9 days.

I'm not going anywhere in particular. There won't be beaches or bikinis or foreign accents. There won't be stamps on my passport or any worries about currency exchange rates. Instead, there will be hours upon hours spent in my most comfy pajamas. There will be naps. There will be a crap ton of boxed wine. I might even have a shot of Bailey's or Kahlua in my coffee each morning. There will be writing, writing, and more writing.

Friday night, I slept for 11 hours straight and only got out of bed when my back decided it'd had enough of my craptacular (and yet, free!) mattress. The rest of the day was spent grocery shopping, doing laundry, and parking myself in front of the television for 5 hours watching the Super-Duper Extra-Special Edition of Lord of the Rings: Return of the King. No really. 5 hours. It was a good day.

Now, I'm getting ready to head up to Acr0nym's house in a minute for a few days and nights. He won't be home for most of it. I'm not going up there to spend time with him per se anyway. I'm going up there to rid myself of distractions...like dishes, laundry, our back room requiring some much needed sorting and organizing attention. I'm going up there to avoid the distraction of Vinny's litter box and Lex's inquiries into "what's for supper?".

I'm going up there to write, to rest, to work on the podcast and the blog re-design - yes, I'm re-designing and moving the blog off Blogger and onto a self-hosted site using a different blogging software. I've taken time off my paying job so that I can spend quality time on the other job I love.

I've taken time off my paying job to rest and re-charge.

I've taken time off my paying job to turn 40.

Vacation. I'm on it. For 7 1/2 more days.

Letting My Inner Adult Out

For those of you just joining us, you ought to know 3 things about Jane In Her Infinite Wisdom:

1) I have never been married.
2) I have no children...at least, I don't think. I'm fairly certain I would know.
3) For the last 10 months, I have, in earnest, been attempting to pay off my mind-bogglingly large debt (nearly $20,000 between student loans and credit cards).

The first two facts largely contribute to the sensation that, most of the time, I don't feel much older than 18...occasionally 12...sometimes 5. In my opinion, I have the best of both worlds. My time, outside of a 9-5 (OK, 7-3) job, is decidedly my own and I squander it however I see fit. It also means that, because I'm the grown up, I can have banana splits or, more importantly, wine for supper and there is no one who can tell me "NO!".

The third fact, well, that one sucks. It's the one fact that continually pulls me out of youthful folly and into sedate adulthood in a snap. It's meant that, for the last 10 months, I have had to budget, plan, save, and think about where every single cent gets spent. Bummer.

Although...now that I think about it, the first two facts contribute to the bummer that is #3. Why? Well, if I had a husband, there'd be someone else to help shoulder the burden of that debt (Ha!). If I had kids (*shudder* sorry, Parents, ew. Just ew. Because ew) I could blame the debt on them. (Ha! Ha!)

As it is, I know I am 100% responsible for the accumulation of said debt and the responsibility of paying it off is all mine. For the record? I've had a kickass time incurring that debt.

Oh! Oh yes. There is one more thing you ought to know about me in relation to this story.

I am thoroughly terrified of auto maintenance and repair. Need proof? Here's just one post (out of many) I wrote about how I DIDN'T curl up into a fetal position and die...in the middle of the Firestone sales floor.

So...this story really begins last weekend...Sunday. I knew I was WAY overdue for an oil change. I knew this because Honda (I drive one of those) is smart and put a little warning light into my dashboard that starts to blink "maintenance required" for a few seconds at 3,000 miles when I start the car. It begins to blink longer at about 5,000 miles. At 7,500 miles - if it's not been reset - the light turns on and won't go off. Sunday morning, as I headed up to Acr0nym's for the continuation of the Great De-cluttering of 2011, that stupid maintenance required light was a steady orange.

Well. Hells Bells.

So...I did what any girl afraid of auto maintenance and repair would do...I pleaded with Acr0nym to check my oil. When he balked, I asked his roommate, Jive Turkey, to do it for me. Acr0nym, being the decent fellow he is, eventually would check my oil.

However, when he lifted up the hood, he was, at first, amazed, and then appalled that my car battery was covered in an extraordinary amount of corrosion. In fact, he stated, "I can't believe this battery is still starting your car. Also? Add oil. And then? Would you please go get your oil changed?"

Yikes.

So I, wrenched from the throes of childhood and into Grown Up-dom kicking and screaming, begrudgingly called my favorite Firestone to make an appointment for an oil change and battery maintenance first thing Monday morning. And then? Then I took a vacation day Thursday (yesterday) to take care of "Grown Up Stuff" including auto maintenance and repair.

I loathe burning a vacation day in order to be an Adult.

So...this is how my day started yesterday (at just past 0 dark:30):

Still dark enough to capture the bright-red neon.

See that white speck in the sky? That's the moon who had yet to retire.

It was WAY too early to be that grown up.

But I got it done.

Then? Then I got my grocery shopping done for the Fourth Annual Grotto Thanksgiving...on a weekday - a full week before the holiday. I've had too many experiences fighting the holiday grocery shopping crowd the weekend before and the weekdays of the same week as the holiday. I figured, since I was being a Grown Up, I might as well spend my day off wisely.

And then? Then I came home and paid off the balance of a long outstanding credit card.

This morning, after reviewing my budget and factoring in the savings on the auto maintenance I'd managed due to the less than anticipated cost + a $15 off coupon, I paid off the balance of the last of my 15-year-old student loans. Instead of spending that extra money on fun stuff.

THAT was the moment it hit me.

I've been out of college for 15 years. 15 years I don't exactly remember flying past me.

Sure, I remember significant good times and particular bad times but, in general, I can't believe 15 years have passed so frighteningly quickly. When I started paying on those loans, I thought it was an excruciatingly long time until they were paid off.

And yet. Yet, here I am, Paid. In. Full. I don't know where the time went.

I can only think, tonight, the time went to learning how to - mostly - become an Adult and what strikes me is that adulthood isn't much different than childhood. The only differences between Jane at 13 and Jane at 40 is that my allowance, at times, goes for things I'd rather not spend money on and that time flies at a far quicker pace.

Additionally, I realize, as I grow older, it is not our inner child who needs let out to have free rein but our inner adult that needs let out occasionally to take care of business.

Whoa.

40 In the Fast Lane

I stumbled out of bed, bleary-eyed and barely conscious, and into the bathroom. As I sat on the toilet, rapidly going through my mental checklist of What Hurts Today - a ritual becoming more and more frequent, I heard myself say in my out loud voice...

"I feel like...Robert Duvall."

I don't even know what that means. As far as I can tell, Robert Duvall, age 80, still has enough gusto in his gumbo to keep up with a wife 41 years' his junior (their age difference is wider than I am old!) - and is still an avid tango dancer.

I'm assuming I was equating my sense of Ow! I'm Aging! with Mr. Duvall but why I would have picked him specifically to compare how I was feeling is known only to an area of my psyche I'm unable to tap at the moment.

I'm pretty sure I wasn't feeling bald...or male...so it had to be age...uh...I think.

The fact is I'm just shy of 40. I'm no longer approaching 40, y'all. The landing gear is down and the flight attendants are buckled into their jump seats just waiting for touch down. And, for the first time, my age is really REALLY bothering me.

It hadn't hit me - the magnitude of 40 - until recently even though I've been thinking about it for months. My thoughts weren't about actually being the big 4-0 they were all along the lines of how I was going to celebrate it...party? Trip? Broo Ha Ha? The force of the number did not occur to me until Acr0nym had his own 40th birthday on the 24th of October. Why his birthday would be the mental turning point, I don't know, but when he turned 40, it felt like a switch got flipped and I felt...old.

Since then, I've had a barrage of reminders that the last remaining days of my 30's are quickly falling away like dominoes in an OK Go Video.



OMG! It's JUST like that video! *laughing*

I mean, just even logging into my BlogHer account for the first time in several months in preparation for NaBloPoMo and reviewing my profile I was confronted with the very first phrase..."I'm a thirty-something serial blogger". Uh, no. Soon I'll be a forty-something serial blogger. Crap!

Additionally, we've recently hired a staff of several young whippersnappers (oh yes, I most certainly just said whippersnappers) to spearhead a new endeavor at work and, after a few days of working in the office next door to these fantastic 20-somethings one of my favorite co-workers came up to my office, a co-worker just a year or two older than me, and announced that, having witnessed youth, he wanted me to know we were "middle-aged". Bite me, Jon. I'm not middle aged. No. Just no. Because no. And bite me again for good measure.

Maybe it's that, until my 30's, I had no idea what it was to be ALIVE!



Uh...that song just totally dated me, didn't it? *sigh*

Most people have the experience of being young and carefree in their teens and twenties and only get ready to buckle down and get serious about life when they hit 30. This was not my life. I don't really remember my teens or twenties and I certainly didn't fall in love, want babies, or buy into the false sense of security that comes with a mortgage and a steady wage in my thirties. It wasn't until I'd hit my 30's before I really understood what fun was, what love was, what life was. Hell! I don't want the wife and kids and big house in the suburbs NOW.

I guess what I really want is to be 35 all the time. I loved 35. I loved all of my mid-30's. I've had the best time of my life in my mid-30's. I've had more confidence, more self-esteem, and the most mind blowing orgasms in my mid-30's. For the first time since I was a dumb teenager thinking she was worldly and wise, I actually was, you know, wise and worldly.

I'm not ready for the "slut" to become the "crone".

But I don't have much choice, I guess. I can continue to be that aging pizza delivery boy - the one who shows up, reminisces about his salad days on the football team, and wants to know where the next keg party is - the laughing stock - or I can accept that I'm 40. Middle aged. Crone.

However, the Divatologist - in her infinite wisdom and impeccable timing - just posted this to the Church of Just Stop It's Facebook page...



And I think I'm prepared to be absolutely ridiculous...especially if it means I don't have to be 40...in my mind.

Age is arbitrary, isn't it? Even when I start to suffer symptoms of peri-menopause...that's arbitrary. Right? While "crone" is appealing as I wield my zen stick - a stick I've wielded since 35 - I am also still "slut" and happily so...right?

40 is just a number.

And I can do 40 in the fast lane with only a few jackasses passing me on the right.

The Right to Bare Arms

I don't wear sleeveless anything.

Ever.

Well, OK, occasionally I can be found in a bathing suit...with a long sleeve cover over the top until I go from lounge chair to pool or hot tub and then the cover up is discarded at the last possible second and I scurry to the safety of the water.

But that's different because of two things...

A) I'm blind as a bat without contacts or glasses. And since I can't see anything when I'm about to get in the pool¹, my philosophy is that if I can't see you, you totally can't see me, and

B) In the event that you are able to see through my invisibility cloak, I shall be going so fast you will only perceive a large, flesh colored blur.

Actually, let's be honest. This goes beyond a "no sleeveless" policy. Unless a short sleeved shirt is too big and the sleeves come down to my elbow², I stick to the 3/4 and long sleeves selections.

Always.

I occasionally wonder if people think it's because I'm a junkie and am attempting to hide track marks.

No, no.

Nothing quite so glamorous as all that.

The fact is I have lunch lady arms.

No, really. I seriously do.

I've been convinced of my lunch lady arm status since I was like in the 8th grade. That's how long it's been since I've bared my arms for all the world to see.

And you know what really sucks when you're compelled to hide the lunch lady arms?

Summer.

So I envy fellow lunch lady arm women who've managed to overcome their lunch lady arm shame and discard all sleeves in the interest of keeping cool on a hot summer day.

Because tank tops and a breeze? That's like free air conditioning and I like both. Free and air conditioning, I mean.

But no. Just...no. Because no.

I won't do it. You can't make me.

So let's just pretend I'm a junkie and am trying to hide the evidence of my addiction.

Kthxbye.




1: Because I have actually lost a contact lens in a pool exactly one time and henceforth do not wear contacts in the pool.


2: Sleeve...awesome word. Say it a lot in your head. It tickles me.

Fur Goodness (Sakes)

I no longer believe in coincidence.

Several weeks ago, Chris¹ and I were talking about our favorite bands/albums of all time. I do not take these kinds of decisions lightly. Thus, for me to say The Psychedelic Furs and specifically the album Talk Talk Talk is in my top 5 all time favorite bands and albums is very serious business indeed.

However, I'd never seen them live.

The day after our discussion then, it was brought to my attention that The Psychedelic Furs would be playing the Boulder Theater on September 11 with The Happy Mondays. Coincidence? I think not.

So this Friday night, Chris, the good sport², and I made the trip up to the show. And oh my! What a show.

First, The Happy Mondays were really very good. Except for one thing...Shaun Ryder, Love, you are a very very creepy man now. As in if-I-saw-you-within-100-yards-of-an-elementary-school-I'd-call-the-police kind of creepy³. The songs are so great though! I'd forgotten how much I liked them. And if the Furs hadn't played, I still would have felt as though I'd seen a good show.

Lucky for me, the Furs were there and they did play and now? Now I have a ginormous celebrity crush on Richard Butler. In fact, he shall receive an invitation to my Celebrity Crush Supper Party⁴. Watching him perform was like watching joy. He is so smiley and such fun to watch, I couldn't help but just beam at him the whole 90 minutes they played. Never mind that they didn't play Into You Like a Train or Until She Comes. They played so many other songs I love love love. And Butler's voice is still that same gritty, sensual, knee trembly voice I've loved for the last 2 and 1/2 decades.

Here's a promo video with interview and concert footage of one Mr. Butler and the band and hopefully you can see a bit of why I have a crush...



Both Chris and I were so very tired at the end of the night. We agreed the next show we go to must have chairs as we're too old now for standing only shows or grassy knoll shows⁵. But it was worth every minute of it...in my humble opinion.

1: The Potential...as in potential manfriend I've been dating for the last couple of months.


2: Chris worked an 11-hour shift and got no down time in between work and the show. He didn't get home until after 1. That is a very good sport.


3: By no means am I implying Mr. Ryder is a molester or a criminal at all. He simply is very creepy looking in a molester sort of way. Add sunglasses to this picture and this is what he looked like at the concert:











4: The Celebrity Crush Supper Party is my fantasy supper whereby all the guests are celebrities I love and they come together in adoration of me. The guest list includes: Richard Butler, David Sedaris, Seth Rogen, Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, Janeane Garafalo, Queen Latifah, Rachel Maddow, Charlize Theron, and Kate Winslet. I need one more for an even dozen (including myself).


5: Chris and I have now been to 3 shows together...The Guess Who where we sat on a grassy knoll at Hudson Gardens, The Spinners at the Taste of Colorado where there was no seating if you wanted to see, and now The Psychedelic Furs which was also standing only. I'm pretty certain we'd both pay extra to be able to sit down.