Earlier this week a colleague said they would soon be turning forty. I said congratulations, oh your forties are going to be great! He shook his head and raised his eyebrows, incredulous…what?
I always knew I’d enjoy being any age but 20. I recall my thirties being the decade of anger, but a good motivating anger. I felt confident that I would hit my stride in my forties. I’ve also been fortyish for quite a long time…
At 16 I stole my parents car to go to Chicago to visit the museums.
When I was 28 I really really wanted to go on a cruise of Norway that featured tours of ancient mills and tapestry museums, guided by a textile historian.
When I lived in France, I took painting classes at a holiday destination designed for retirees, which I adored.
When I was 35, I couldn’t get the coastal weekend place I really really wanted because it was a 65+ community.
These were also my peak crochet years.
It’s not a secret that my mortality is on my mind, that this summer’s weekend adventures are bittersweet and often booked with a frantic sense of doom. Restricted by covid, treatment schedules and reality, my travel bucket list no longer includes Denmark, Japan, South Africa, Spain or even Canada. It’s now the Wisconsin bucket list.
This weekend’s adventure was in beautiful Bayfield. We ended our visit with a walk around town. As we turned a sunny corner, right there in front of me was an unexpected reminder that I’ve always wanted to visit every standing Carnegie Library…a physical reminder of all the dorky things I want yet to do.
All I really want is to be middle aged for a really really long time.