Take on Me: the 50-year-old edition
A photo that needs no caption.
Last weekend, 22 of my friends and I went to a “Take on Me 80s Dance Party” for my 50th birthday celebration. When “Take on Me,” the 1985 song by A-ha, was released, I was in 5th grade. I mostly remember being introduced to it by my sister, who was a much cooler 8th grader at the time.
This time, I went to dance to “Take on Me” as a middle-aged pediatrician with three teenage children and a touch of social anxiety — a whole different vibe than my Esprit-wearing, 11-year-old self.
I ordered a badly printed 80s shirt online, in a larger size than usual so it wouldn’t restrict movement, in a color that is definitely “not my color,” as my mother would lovingly say.
When the fluorescent pink 80s accessories arrived, I found that the jelly bracelets were too tight on my 50-year-old wrist. I also put the cheap pink earrings aside, as they would’ve caused my earlobes to have a flare of eczema. But I was able to pull off the garish pink mesh bow headband (or was I?), the pink beaded necklace and the mesh pink gloves.
When it was time to get ready, I made sure to put on comfy underclothes that wouldn’t ride up. I paired the 80s shirt with the elastic-banded Athleta trekkie pants I wear anytime I’m not at work. I put on my white sneakers but then took them off to put a corn pad on the right pinky toe since I was going to be dancing all night. This is 50.
It is very unlike me to go to dance parties besides jazzercise at this stage in my life. I haven’t been to a club since college. If I’m not at work or with my close friends, participating in calm activities, well, I’m usually at home with my family, at my childrens’ events, watching shows, reading or writing.
Few would call me the life of the party. Looking back, I see that for most of my adult life, I have studied and worked. I realize now, at 50, that I need to take more risks. I need to have more fun.
As I enter what is definitely the last third of my life, I’ve decided I need to do more things that scare me. This week I did two of those things. Weirdly, hosting a group to go to a 50th birthday celebration was one of them.
I fretted before the event, like only I can fret. What if no one wants to come? What if the people who do come don’t have fun? What if the event is lame? What if something goes wrong with the party bus?
As an expert overthinker, I’ve been working on changing my “what ifs” to “even ifs” when I start to spiral. It actually works. Even if no one wants to come, I can still go and have fun. Even if my friends don’t have fun, they can leave and it’s not personal. Even if the event is lame, we can laugh about it and will have good memories to share. Even if something goes wrong with the party bus, we can take our own cars.
As I turn 50, I realize what matters, more than ever, is simply showing up for my life. At 50, I say what I say, and while I know some of you think I’ve always done this (here’s looking at you, Sybil), I realize now how important it is to speak up for what I believe.
I laugh that I now have what my friend and I used to call “front butt” (karma) and find myself searching for tunics when I shop online. I search for fabrics and styles that don’t restrict movement or irritate my skin. I’m letting my hair go to natural white, even though people ask me if I have grandchildren since I quit dyeing it.
I have less energy than I used to have. My knees and shoulders hurt and I have to sit on the edge of the bed for a few seconds so I don’t get dizzy while standing. I’m balancing my kids’ daily lives and futures and am witnessing the aging of those I love. I am, like many others, the true sandwich generation. At 50, I realize it’s a privilege to be so. The alternative is not having all of those people I dearly love in my life.
Back to the dance party, we walked into the dance hall and my friend laughed and said, “Wait, no chairs? Where will I sit down?” Even so, we danced for about three hours. And it was so fun, even though our ears were ringing into the next morning. And even though my husband said the next morning, “Well, last night definitely told us we are too old to go clubbing!”
Two friends had to get to the airport early the next morning, one to work in Chicago and one to a family funeral. One had to get up early to take her kids to camp. One needed to be home to tuck her son into bed. We are 50. But they all showed up. These friends who danced with me gave me the best gift of all, that of their presence.
I danced with people who have known my children their whole lives. Who brought food when my father-in-law passed away. Who love me and love my family. Who have sat through sports events and dance recitals and that one guitar show that smelled terrible. Who have been at church retreats and participated in deep, meaningful conversations about how freakin’ hard life can be.
My only regret about my 50th birthday celebration is that I couldn’t invite every single person who’s played a role in my life. My hometown peeps, my college peeps, my medical school friends and teachers. At 50 I know that I am every experience I’ve had, touched by everyone who’s ever loved me. For that I am grateful.
My son saw the videos from the party and said, “That’s the most wholesome thing I’ve seen, even though you’re NPCs.” NPCs: non-player characters in video games who don’t contribute at all.
Not me, son. We may be 50, but we’re not NPCs.
There is a part of me that has carried self consciousness onto every dance floor of my life, literal and figurative. And at 50, I am leaving that behind. Entering this next decade of life, I will leave you with a lyric from Pink: “I never want to not dance again.”
The advice and opinions herein are by no means meant to be a substitute for professional medical advice. Please contact your personal physician, mental health provider or health care professional for medical advice. Opinions are my own.