Birthday

So, today's the day. This is it. I'm no longer facing 50; I've arrived, I'm there, I'm now in my 50s.
Whoa.

It's weird. I really do feel different. As if I'm jetlagged and in a foreign country.

Oh wait. I am jetlagged and in a foreign country.

Which does kind of help with the whole Big Birthday half-a-friggin'-century thing. For one thing, I'm in Ireland and who can be down in Ireland?--other than the Irish, of course. And far from family and friends, cut off from routine responsibilities, I don't feel 50; I just feel, well, jetlagged and in a foreign country.

Although actually, jetlag is fairly routine for me, because chronic insomnia and jetlag are pretty much indistinguishable. Except that jetlag usually means that somewhere along the line you've been somewhere you really wanted to be. Just like the sleep deprivation you get with having a baby is like what insomnia feels like, except at least you get the baby.

Now that I think about it, tho', insomnia does make even the most familiar place into a foreign country; it's just that it's one of those foreign countries you never ever want to visit--say, the Soviet Union, 1954. Stark, cold, grey concrete buildings, all unforgiving angles and relentless drab.

But I, I get to come face-to-face with 50 in Ireland, with its gentle curves and soothing greenness. My dominant impression of Ireland thus far is that of softness. Of course there's that legendary Irish landscape, sculpted and smoothed by centuries of deforesting and grazing and cultivating. But take the lilt of the Irish accent as well: Listening to the Irish speak is like the auditory equivalent of cuddling up on an overstuffed sofa with a fluffy comforter. Or take one of the most common sights in Ireland (at least if you're traveling with a pack of undergraduates)--that of a barman pouring Guinness into a pint glass--the liquid swirls and foams as smoothly as a silk shawl slipping over bare shoulders. Even traditional Irish music--I learned today, courtesy of my music prof colleague--has a softness, a lack of definition, as one tune follows another without break or breath.

It occurs to me that I've spent most of my first 50 years drawing and maintaining clean, sharp, straight lines. Perhaps I can spend the next 50 smudging, curving, blurring those lines. A bit of Irish softness seems in order.

I'll start with another pint of Guinness.