Pablo Picasso Was Never Called an Asshole

The trouble with middle age is you know too much and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. I’m not pondering flipping real estate knowledge; I’m talking gut punching, jaw dropping, mind bending reality. I can only speak for myself, it may be of little concern to other 50 some-things. Possibly the “middle-age” ship sailed without me, and I’m wallowing in delusional jelly.

Granted – reality television and media saturation have changed the stereotype of how a middle aged woman is supposed to act. Problematic is the fact that these factors tend to make laughing stock out of “characters” who tread outside comfortable norms. Deviations revolve around botoxed “real housewives” or uneducated divorcees running southern trailer parks. Either way – we laugh at them which isn’t any improvement over June Cleaver in Leave It To Beaver.

Hitting fifty feels like a horribly lousy punch line to a sick joke. I’m not laughing – well maybe a little, and only because irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve figured out that I like myself, have stopped boo-hooing over a childhood that didn’t go my way, stopped acting out because of it, raised three beautiful children, been married over 30 years to an equally off centre man, realized age will never alter who I am, and forgiven myself for being human and making mistakes.

All well and good, but it took 50 years. I have no desire to golf, shop, or have my nails done. I would rather slit my wrists than go on a cruise or all inclusive vacation. I want to be a storm chaser, take road trips (yes – travel great distances by car – off the interstate no less, Β with no destination in mind), and dig for fossils. I don’t care about possessions, and would go barefoot year round if only I could get away with it.

I don’t feel middle aged; I feel young and alive – trapped in a fading package, and adrift in society that worships youth and status. Worse still, and weighing heavily on my mind – I’m starting to spend way too much time pondering how things “used to be” I’m becoming that person I rolled my eyes at when I was a kid; that person always saying “when I was your age”

The greatest relief is I don’t give a damn. I’m dancing my ass off to Jonathon Richman singing Pablo Picasso Was Never Called an Asshole, and remembering his concert at the Filmore in San Fransisco, 1982. It makes me happy – middle age can bite, but I won’t hide. Life is far too short.

13 thoughts on “Pablo Picasso Was Never Called an Asshole

  1. I hear ya!

    Best trip I ever had was driving across the US via the southern part of route 66 with only a general direction and no itinerary. On the side of the roud was a VW bus with an alien on it.

    • Crap! I was changing the way a word was spelled and hit enter…ugh!

      Hubby and I looked at each other and instantly though…Let’s go to Roswell. After seeing it was only a three hour detour…we headed south but since then have been sworn to secrecy and cannot tell you anything more. πŸ™‚

  2. So true, although I must say the wrist-slitting prospect of a cruise is lessening. The idea of lying around reading books and snoozing, food on demand and going for day trips to random places does have a certain appeal. I’m almost embarrassed to admit that – used to be my idea of a nightmare!

  3. Not giving a damn is the absolutely best thing about 50. I’m enjoying it all the time and when people say, “give a damn!”, they quickly realise it won’t work and they will either abandon a lost cause or become reasonable. Enjoy: 50 is the new 20 without mirrors.

  4. LOL — It’s funny that we humans take so long to learn what might be thought of as rather simple lessons. I wouldn’t mind living on a beach and catching up on my reading — just not doing it with 2500 hamster-wheel escapees seeking to fix 50 weeks of screwing ourselves up with two weeks of insane activity choices that leave us exhausted and resenting the life we are forced to return to.

    Sometimes I think the best thing that ever happened to me was being forced to live a life that happened to have a lot of old people in it. Old age looks far less obnoxious to me because of them. I’m not exactly racing to get older, in fact I’m doing what I can to stay mentally young whether or not my body comes along for the ride. !!! πŸ˜€

    A retired photographer looks at life
    Peter Pazucha dot Com
    Life Unscripted on WordPress

  5. Where’s the line from middle age to old age?
    People used to tell me I didn’t look old; now they tell me I have a young voice. My mind and thoughts are still relatively young; yet, there are some days that my mind wanders far and wide and I have to hope that it will return.
    When did I cross the line from middle age to old?

  6. Hi, I turn 49 next week. It does suck when you get together with friends and talk about “Glory Days” as Bruce would say. Maybe we get to a point where we stop creating new experiences, new memories?
    The old days do seem better sometimes. We had less responsability and more time when we were young, but I’m not sure I’d want to do it over again.
    I consider myself lucky in that I joined a running club, have made new friends and we create new memories all the time.
    49 is going to be a transitional year for me. My youngest goes off to college just before I turn 50. I’ll know weather my little business is going to go any where and I will have learned so many things that I plan on learning over the next 12 months.

    • I’m 53, and completely “get” what you’re saying.As for glory days – aside from the rather tattered package that was once my youthful self – middle age isn’t half bad. πŸ™‚ I feel far less pressure now that my kids are adults.

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