Forty, Fifty, Sixty Something

by Amy Ruhlin

My husband has grown a beard. I’ve known him for 30 years and he has not once, not ever, tried to grow any type of facial hair at all.

Our 20-year-old daughter became concerned when she saw it. She said that surely he would shave soon; it is so unlike him to grow a beard.

And then she asked me if this could be his midlife crisis.

“Why, yes,” I told her, trying to contain my excitement, “actually, I think it is.”

“Well,” she said, “if this is the extent of it, then that is good news.”

I know that she said this with great relief, even though she said it by text, because she witnessed my own midlife adjustment. She was often in the room as the hormones shifted, the tears spilled and the mood changed.

I agreed with my daughter that her Dad’s beard was benign midlife angst. But I was also secretly thrilled. For years, I had been hoping that he would exhibit some mild hysteria so that I didn’t look so bad.

My husband is a rock. He is calm and patient and kind and level-headed. And although I love and appreciate these qualities, they made him seem like a saint as he sailed through midlife while I turned into Medusa.

He and I have been together for the majority of our adult lives.

We carved out our careers and moved into full adulthood together in our twenties.

We created a family and built a home together in our thirties.

We entered our forties together and after a few years, I fell apart. But he did not and it didn’t seem fair. I thought we were in this together.

I began to toss and turn at night and wake up in sweat while he peacefully snored beside me.

I began to face the reality that I had to let go of my babies because somehow, they grew up.  It was not easy letting go and I struggled. And since my husband was just as involved in raising our kids as I was, I assumed that he was struggling too.

“Aren’t you sad that the kids aren’t little anymore?” I would ask.

“Not all all,” he would say. “Those were great times but now they are older and these are good times too.”

I was sure he was in denial , so I found old photos of the kids when they were small and adorable and held them up close to his face.

“Look,” I’d plead, “doesn’t it just kill you that those days are gone?”  But he would only smile and say, “Nah, those were fun days but now we’ve just moved on to different days. You know, circle of life and all that stuff.” He was taking it all in stride and it was maddening.

I began to count the number of grey hairs on my head and I noticed that my husband didn’t have any. Not one. As I increased the number of highlights in my hair, he combed through the same thick, dark hair he’s had since he was 21.

I didn’t like this solo trip. But things are looking up now that we are in our fifties.

My husband has grown a beard.  A crazy, woolly, middle-aged , grey beard.

Thank you, honey. I’m so glad we are in this together.

by Amy Ruhlin

On the night of the Golden Globe Awards I watched the news as my husband cooked lemon garlic pork chops and mustard greens.  Our plan was a quiet dinner. We had no intention of watching the awards show; it’s really not our thing.  But during a commercial break from the news, I caught a glimpse of the red carpet interviews.  
Over the hiss of sizzling pork I asked my husband if he wanted to watch the Golden Globes, just for fun.  He said sure, so I found our old bamboo TV dinner trays in the pantry and we parked ourselves in front of the television to take in all of the glamour and glitz.

by Amy Ruhlin                          Featured Article on The Huffington Post

It’s New Year’s Eve and my husband and I are at home. We are dressed for the evening in our favorite sweats, soft slippers and fuzzy socks. We sit in front of the fireplace as our dinner simmers on the stove. The food smells good and the fire is warm. We open a bottle of red wine and it tastes especially smooth. “It was on sale,” my husband says, and we grin as we take our first sips, enjoying the pleasure of a good wine at a cheap price.

Our son walks into the room and shows us that he is dressed for the evening, too.”Do I look OK?” he asks. He is wearing dress pants, a collared shirt and a striped bow tie. He is 17 and tall and handsome.

“You look terrific,” we say. I can see the excitement in his face as he anticipates his evening: dinner out with a large group of friends and a bonfire at midnight.

Our daughter is away on a trip. She bought a new black dress for the occasion and tried it on for me before she left. She looked young and beautiful and for a moment, I wished I was 20 again and off to New York in a black dress to celebrate the New Year. The morning she left, I could feel her excitement.

When our son leaves the house, my husband and I turn on the television to watch a football game, but the power goes out and our home becomes dark and quiet. We light candles and talk about the past year and our memories seem especially sweet as we share them in a room illuminated from the light of three small flames.

From our window, we can see that the entire street is dark, so we step outside to take a look. There is no electricity for as far as we can see and the light from the moon shows off the bare limbs of the trees in winter. It is cold and the night looks especially beautiful .

Later, when the power is back on, my husband watches the football game while I read in another room. We both have our cell phones nearby in hopes of texts from our children. We don’t hear from them, so my husband sends me texts, pictures of himself making silly faces and it makes me laugh. He has been making me laugh for 28 years, but tonight I think he is especially funny and tonight I laugh especially hard.

Sometimes, I miss the excitement of my youth, but tonight I do not. Tonight, I realize that I have exchanged it for something even better: I have exchanged it for the ability to see that our extraordinary times often happen in our most ordinary moments.

And I realize that as this year begins, I am no longer concerned that I have no list of resolutions. Instead, I am content knowing that my only wish is to have a most ordinary year.

via The View At Midlife http://bit.ly/RwG3yB