Bye Bye Stuff, Hello Time

When people hear that I live on a 42’ sailboat in Ballard, the most common reaction I get is, “You live on a sailboat?  Wow. That is SO cool!”  I suppose it is. But during the decision and then the transition process I felt anything but cool.  I didn’t just say, “Yeah, let’s do it!  Let’s sell our house and all our stuff and live simply and shrink our footprint.”  I cried and argued and worried and stressed and resisted – qualities and behavior not often associated with cool people. So while it may be “cool” to live on a boat, I feel like an imposter accepting this particular designation. 

When my husband first started talking about it, I didn’t take him too seriously. Dan had had so many schemes and plans to move us toward financial freedom over the years that I began calling him “Ralph” after Jackie Gleason’s character from the Honeymooners.  “OK, Ralph, sounds great,” I’d say when he presented me with another idea.

I was sure it couldn't happen because, well, what would we do with all our stuff? How would we ever find the time to sort through our things, decide what to keep, what to store and what to toss?  How could we stomach putting the house on the market and having strangers traipsing through every day?  What about actually moving - leaving our dear little house? Changing our mailing address?  It paralyzed me to think of adding such daunting work to all we were already juggling.

Truthfully, we had been toying with the idea for a while.  During our many summers cruising the west coast of Canada, we traveled deeply into the rainforest and even more deeply into ourselves. After a month or more on our floating home that provided everything we needed, I would dreamily say, “I would be happy if we lived on the boat full-time.  I could do this.” And I really believed I could.

But once Dan started getting serious about it, I learned pretty quickly what a faker I was. I panicked when I realized that this one wasn’t going away.  The universe has a bothersome way of calling you out when you start patting yourself on the back at how cool you are.  “Oh yeah?” it seems to say, “let’s see just how you deal with THIS.”  And suddenly you are looking in the mirror, stark naked, not an undergarment or hair-product or tube of mascara in sight to disguise the flaws, the raw truth of how far you still have to go to that perceived coolness to which so many of us aspire.  Grasping at straws, I demanded the impossible:  a boat with three dedicated sleeping rooms, a couch, and a master bed that could be gotten in and out of from either side.  “It won’t happen,” I secretly thought.  That way I would never be exposed.

Mid-Life? Bring it On!

            Has it happened yet? Have you been called “M’am” at the supermarket?  Have you woken up and looked in the mirror to find your mother staring back at you?  Do you perform an occasional strip-tease during a business meeting as a hot flash comes on? Or have you noticed men staring as you walk past them on the street – not at you as they once did – but at your daughter?

            Or how about this…

You’re out with your husband, enjoying cocktails with some work associates after a holiday party.  You feel pretty good in the outfit you bought for the occasion – it’s swishy, slimming, and youthful.  You’re chatting and laughing with the other wives and you notice that they pay close attention when you speak.  Ahhh!  I’m fascinating as well as gorgeous tonight, you think.  The other women are a bit younger than you; their children home with a babysitter while your teenagers are out with friends.  It seems like just yesterday that you were forced to keep glancing at your watch, as these women do, to be sure you wouldn’t be late for the babysitter.  The talk turns to the wear and tear motherhood puts on women’s looks.  “Wait until they’re teenagers,” you throw out casually but with an air of authority.  One of the women counters with “But you look great!”  Before you have time to take in the compliment she adds, “I hope I look as good as you when I’m your age.” 

           (SOUND OF TIRES SCREECHING ON PAVEMENT.) 


          When I’m your age?  When I’m YOUR age?  Suddenly the noise in the bar begins to fade, taken over by a weird humming sound as all the blood in your body rushes into your ears and your brain tries to sort out what this statement means.  How old do they think I am?  What do I look like from their perspective?  Were they paying such close attention to my comments because they see me as their elder, wiser counterpart – the Village Crone?  You do your best to appear engaged in the conversation but the internal dialogue is too loud and you find yourself wishing you had the excuse of a babysitter to hurry you out of the bar.  Your makeup feels like it’s melting and the bulge around your waistline feels suffocating.  The clock has struck midnight and Cinderella suddenly ain’t lookin’ so good anymore.

Scenarios like these are happening to me with increasing frequency.  I am often (too often to ignore it) mistaken for my younger sister’s mother.  I’m blown away when it’s time to get my driver’s license photo re-taken and I see the difference between the old picture and the new one.  And what about invisibility?  I always thought it would be cool to have a super-power, but I was thinking more about, say, flying... or x-ray vision... or time travel...    than becoming invisible to entire sidewalks full of people younger than I.

Let’s face it.  We live in a youth-worshipping culture where women (and men -- guys are not entirely exempt from this phenomenon) are pressured to dye their hair, lift their lids, nip and tuck chins, necks, breasts and butts.  In short, to do anything but allow the natural process of aging to occur.  There is a sense of something coming to an end, of being about to topple into the abyss of old age where society will view and treat you differently. 

So what do we do?  Do we just disappear?  Do we give up and resign ourselves to the end of life as a vibrant, worthy, physically beautiful person?  Or do we embrace the change, accept the results, and rejoice in the freedom that can come from letting go of the superficial?   We certainly would not be alone if we chose that approach – far from it.