Fifty

Turning fifty gives a person a new perspective on life, a deeper insight, I think. I’m willing now to concede, for example, that both versions of “Our Lips are Sealed” are just fine, even if the Go-Go’s was a cover. And although it’s true that you shouldn’t judge a wine by the bottle, you can tell a lot about a man by his Facebook friends. And his shoes. I’m also convinced empathy is overrated. The world is filled with people who feel bad for the suffering of others. I blame Oprah’s Book Club. Now get off your ass and do something about it, even if all you can do is write a few cheques. Those $5 donations add up when a million people send them.

As for regrets, of course I have a few. But being an adult means sometimes living with remorse and shame, not spilling your guts on a talk show or fessing up for something you did 25 years ago that can only possibly make someone else feel like crap just so you can assuage your guilt a little. Grow up. I should add, if I have any admirable qualities at all, they’re due to the women in my life, especially my Grandmother, my Mother and my Wife. My faults are my own. I blame television for nothing!

 And forget all this nonsense about living each day like it’s your last; that sort of morose, fatalistic thinking is liable to make you do something stupid and reckless. Rather, live each day like it’s your first, full of joy and wonder at the revelation of ordinary things, praising yourself for every accomplishment, great and small, remembering that the simple fact you’re around at all, is a miracle in itself. Thanks Mom. I’m sorry I don’t say that often enough.

Morey