I had every intention to welcome my 50th birthday with bells on. Aging gracefully is the most wonderful idea and everything about it makes sense, including the truism that if you never turn 50, well, you never turn 50. My life is ridiculously lucky, especially because of my family here in Ottawa, in other parts of Canada, and in California. I have a dream job as a self-employed writer and content strategist and as much as everything sucks about this pandemic, writing about the economic and social effects of the crisis has been interesting, and my work promoting Canadian books has taken on new meaning. I love my friends and colleagues who live near and far.
So much to celebrate, so little to hold me back from appreciating my new milestone.
But. I am also a perfectionist, and anyone who truly knows what perfectionism is knows that it is a freaking massive drag. It can be crippling. It’s not about being A-type and achieving fabulous heights of success. It’s about being so hard on yourself and doubtful of your talents and worth that it is hard to push through anything to achieve all the “shoulds” that run rampant through your brain. About setting standards so high that it is impossible to meet them, ensuring the continuation of the vicious cycle of wanting to do things but stopping yourself from doing them because they won’t be good enough.
I’ve fought and sought help for perfectionism for years, and there are times that I’m relatively successful at pushing the “not enough” inner voice down for long enough that it exerts a heavenly small influence on my life. And before this all seems like so much doom and gloom, I should note that I’m constantly grateful for everything I have and I do know that I’m nice and smart and even funny. My kids remind me of that, as does my beautiful husband, as do my mom and dad and brother and sister-in-law and friends and … so yeah, I get lots of help in remembering my worth.
Turning 50, though, eesh. I knew what I needed to do by March 20. Get fitter than ever, get to my pre-kids weight, eradicate wrinkles, write the book I’ve always wanted to, pay off all debt, fix our front steps, revamp my wardrobe, push my career to new levels. It was time, goddammit, to get successful.
I had a couple of months, I figured, when the “shoulds” started ramping up in January. I focused my mind on them, maybe believing that the more I paid attention to them, the more they might move over to the mythical "accomplished" file. In the meantime, inner peace and satisfaction? Out the window. Living in the moment? Ha.
By the time my birthday rolled around, I was a mess. A hermit. A ball of anxiety and depression.
Thankfully, things began to turn around a week or so before the Day Where I Would Finally Be Perfect. And my birthday was brilliant, full of bouquets, calls, cards, decorations, sunny walks, thoughtful presents, gourmet dinner, and best family and friends ever. I could never have imagined anything better, even if we hadn’t been in a pandemic that never feels like it's never going to end.
But it was nearly a month later, this past weekend, when I got the birthday present I needed.
Oliver has become suddenly obsessed with playing baseball, and I grew up in a baseball-obsessed family (my dad wrote two books about the game and going to Florida for Expos spring training was a major part of our annual rhythm for a while). I am slow as molasses, but I can still hit well enough and I have an arm. This past week I went several times with O to the baseball diamond near our house and we alternated pitching and hitting, mostly with him at bat. It felt incredible, with no one around and a few at-bats where each of us smacked one off the sweet spot. That sound, ooh that soft, sunshiny, delicious sound, all the more rewarding because it can be elusive.
On Sunday afternoon, we were joined by Craig and Georgia as well as my parents, whom we have seen far too little in the past few months under lockdown. My dad went to the outfield; Craig made sure our dog, Blue, stayed clear of trouble; and Georgia and my mom chatted near the bench. O assumed his position at the plate, and I, per usual (because my throw is rusty and he’s only started playing this month), walked over to my spot a few inches off the pitcher’s mound – closer to the plate and the wooden bat and the nearly 13-year-old boy who has a super hard hockey shot than perhaps was wise.
My next pitch was perfect. Perfect, I tell you ;-) And Oliver met it with gusto, cracking a clean line drive that found me in about 1.2 seconds. I did not get that glove anywhere where it needed to be. So the ball whacked me hard on my right leg, a few inches over my knee (THANK GOD).
Here is my bruise, a few days post-whack.
I look at it and think that in the early days of my being 50, we got my parents out on a sunny day in the pandemic to join us in baseball, my dad’s favourite sport. Georgia and my mom made up silly rhymes, with Craig watching over them and Blue to ward off any potential foul balls (and G had a few triumphant hits herself). I got my bruise from pitching to my phenomenal son who still loves to play with me and chat with me and who’s doing all he can do to stay active in this ever-more difficult lockdown. We are healthy, and my parents have received their first vaccine shot. My bruise is ugly and sore on my pale, winter skin, and I enjoy checking on it to see if it’s getting more hideous.
It’s my 50 bruise and I needed a good whack.
