From the Back of the Bus

Once, long, long ago in a place far, far away, I rode a Tri-met bus home every day from school. A favorite pastime was teasing a Stephanie, one of my classmates, from the peanut gallery at the back of the bus. I don't know why I did that; she wasn't a bad person, not ugly or unpopular. Maybe I was just bored.

Now, 30 some years later, Stephanie comes to mind. A couple of weeks ago she was blogging poetic about turning 50, and today it's my turn. (Her profile picture is of a little girl. It's not her. She stalks preschoolers at playgrounds and probably will continue doing so until she's christened her first grandchild.) Or perhaps it was last week passing a mile or so from her little farm on the Columbia and wondering if she was home.








 Fifty for Stephanie is an adventure, a pleasure cruise on quiet waters. In fact, fifty is only one thing.

Old.

Forty is when you're getting old, at fifty you've arrived. Don't believe all that crap about being at your prime and starting out on the second half of life. (Who lives to be 100? Who wants to?) When you turn 20 and 30, you build your body. After 50 you try to preserve it. Parts break down and need to be fixed or replaced, starting with the eyes and teeth and ending up with the heart and mind. When you're young you don't greet strangers because you can't find your glasses.


After fifty, women turn invisible. They no longer attract the attention of men other than their husbands, and that only because they can't be ignored. It isn't much better for men – fifty is when your warranty runs out. You're useless and redundant; who wants a worn out and weary ol' coot.
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50 isn't just a number for me this year. Things that defined me are coming to an end. The army will be turning me out to pasture. My son will be replacing me, doing stuff I won't be able to share here because I don't need to know (and you, dear reader, need to not know.) It's my time to move to the back of the bus.
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But if there's something to be said for fifty, it's perspective. A lot of things happen over the years. You see things from the back of the bus.
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I think I know why I poked fun at Stephanie 32 years ago. She was a bit pretentious, a little presumptuous, and I couldn't believe that she and everyone else on the bus didn't see it. But now I think that they probably did, and liked her anyway. And if now at fifty she pretends a little, who cares? She's not a bad person, not ugly and not unpopular. She loves and is loved. She's happy. She has a bright take on life and paints it pretty. I think I envy Stephanie a little.
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So maybe I should try sitting quietly in the back, watch Stephanie, and maybe even learn something.






Happy 50th, Steph!