We are not dead yet! Who couldn’t use a bit of excitement in their lives? Excitement helps us to remain vibrant and interesting (most importantly, perhaps, to ourselves). Remember the feeling of adrenaline coursing through your veins? It makes you stronger and faster, and makes everything seem more vivid. Maybe it is not something I want to experience every day, but bursts here and there are like cardiac revival paddle shots to my being. I consider exciting adventures to be a sort of defibrillation from mediocrity, complacency, and even despair.
I know that I am physically unable to do some of the things I could do even a decade ago, when I ran marathons. My knees sometimes hurt when climbing stairs. But I am not giving up.
Madonna is in her late 50s. Meryl Streep is in her late 60s. Cher is in her late 70s. Are they leading sedentary, staid lives? No. Why should we? We certainly do not have to. Even former president George H. W. Bush marked his 90th birthday by skydiving. I could do that! But since I do not know whether I will live to age 90, I may as well do it now.
I have many more exhilarating plans for myself, like getting my scuba certification so I can dive deeper than the shallow resort dives I have been lucky enough to try. Here are a few possible ideas for your consideration. At least they may inspire ideas that fit your unique personality.
37. Wind Therapy (Or, What It’s Like to Pretend to Be a Hells Angel)
On a cycle the frame is gone. You’re completely in contact with it all. You’re in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming.
Much to my children’s horror, I learned how to ride a motorcycle and got one of my own. I told them they were welcome to do the same after they turned 50. I wanted to try something daring, and this definitely was outside of my comfort zone.
There were classes offered at the local community college and at an area Harley-Davidson dealer. You know which location I chose. There was only one other woman in the class I took. The rest of the students were burly, tough guys, and one cop in training. One guy dropped out, stomping away after he flailed off the practice course while attempting a turn.
I was shaking a little the first time I got on the bike. It was so heavy that it was hard for me to hold it steady when I came to a stop. It definitely was easier to ride than to stop or stay still on a motorcycle. These Harleys had roll bars on their sides so that, if dropped by a student, the bike would not get damaged (and our legs would not get crushed). I dropped mine twice while practicing on the course. But I proudly passed the three-day course and went straight to the Motor Vehicles Administration to get my motorcycle license. Shortly after that, I bought a small used motorcycle, a Suzuki 350. I may get a Harley after I have more experience riding.
Wind therapy. I now know what that means. Being on a motorcycle on a country road with the wind on your face and the sun at your back is therapeutic. I imagine sailing and other sports can have this effect as well.
One of my favorite authors, Ann Patchett, observed that “people are more than willing to die on motorcycles because for that moment . . . they are truly and deeply alive.”2 I have learned, however, that she does not endorse motorcycle riding, by any means.
I feel fierce and alive on a motorcycle. Being in a car has become somewhat like watching a moving television screen for me. When I get on a motorcycle, or even a bike or scooter, I smile at the unfiltered beauty around me and the sun warming my arms.
Each time I mount that rumbling 500-plus pounds of metal, it is a thrill. It feels dangerous and powerful. It is dangerous and powerful. There is little between you and the pavement. Every time I ride, I must remain acutely aware of the vehicles around me, knowing that many will not notice where I am on the road. I need to look ahead in the distance, at the road to avoid potholes and other hazards, and side to side for turning cars, pedestrians, and animals. One careless moment can result in maiming or death. It helps to wear bright colors to be more visible and to continually look for escape routes if another driver stops suddenly or moves into your lane. In the evening on country roads, some of my rider friends honk their horns to keep deer from jumping onto the road.
I would not have done this had my children still been dependent upon me. They always came first. But being on the downslope of my life (some call it “the third third”), I am less afraid of dying. I am more afraid of not living vibrantly and with intention. My children and my good works are my legacy. Diminishing fear is another benefit of aging.
Our society has imbued bikers with a sort of “bad boy/girl” image. Some bikers promote the mystique. Hells Angels and other outlaw motorcycle clubs still exist. They wear patches or “colors” to indicate their loyalty. The American Motorcyclist Association is credited with the comment that 99 percent of motorcyclists are law-abiding citizens, implying that the last one percent were outlaws. The outlaw clubs often wear one percent patches to celebrate this dubious distinction. I usually wear something brightly colored and thereby more visible to other drivers, thereby adding a modicum of safety.
What I have found in meeting other motorcycle enthusiasts is a nonjudgmental, brotherhood/sisterhood atmosphere. There are bikers of all ages and socioeconomic backgrounds. They wave or nod to one another on the road. Strangers on bikes frequently join up to ride together to increase their visibility on the road. They like to share ride stories. We have easy conversations with other motorcycle enthusiasts wherever we go. Harley-Davidson dealerships welcome bikers to stop in and have free coffee and sometimes other treats.
Patriotism and honoring veterans are huge in the biker community. I got tears in my eyes at the first Rolling Thunder event I attended, in which veterans were honored by thousands of bikers in downtown Washington, D.C. It was not at all what I expected. I thought the Rolling Thunder attendees would not be emotional types and had bought into the on-screen depictions of motorcycle gangs as being representative of the majority of bikers. While many bikers I meet appear unapproachable, hardened, and somewhat scary, conversations with them have revealed truly congenial people. Another batch of my assumptions dismantled.
Bikers’ Week events take place all over the country. The few I have attended have been fun and low key, featuring food, music, bikes and accessories, and hilarious helmet stickers. Many of the stickers were quite bawdy. Some examples: “Horn broken. Watch for Finger.” “Of course, they’re real. If they were fake, they’d be bigger.” “I have a lot of class; unfortunately it’s all low.” “For some there’s therapy. For the rest of us there’s [sic] motorcycles.” “I’m not a gynecologist, but I’ll take a look.” I didn’t say they were in good taste.
Of course, many from my “old life” still carried the societal assumptions about people who ride motorcycles. I was practicing my riding skills one day and passed a woman whose children attended my son’s tony private school in D.C. I stopped to chat and said, “Yes, my kids are horrified that I got a motorcycle.” In a clipped voice, she responded, “So am I.” I took a look at her and felt a moment of shame. Then I vroom-vroomed and sped away. I no longer allow myself to be governed by other people’s judgments. That’s their baggage, not mine.
Motorcycle riding feels powerful. There are hundreds of pounds of metal being controlled by the rider with a turn of the wrist. The sound is loud (sometimes, purposefully so, to increase drivers’ awareness of a motorcyclist’s presence on the road nearby). The thrill is palpable. And it is cheaper than driving a car and leaves a smaller carbon footprint on Mother Earth. Parking is a breeze. At crowded venues, motorcycles often are permitted to park on the grass or in special areas close to entrances.
I have ridden on the back of a motorcycle from Washington, D.C., to Montreal. I find it meditative. I have seen so much more wildlife along the way than I otherwise would have had a chance to see. My eyes are opening wider with each new adventure.
Is motorcycle riding something you would like to try? It is less difficult than I thought it would be. It helped that I knew how to drive a car with standard transmission, so I understood some about shifting gears. Maybe learning how to drive a car with a stick shift is something that would give you a thrill. Or going off road in a jeep or on an ATV. Remember that the most dangerous risk of all is the risk of spending your life not doing what you want.3
If I were to remain silent, I’d be guilty of complicity.
—Albert Einstein
I now know how to shoot a gun. A ranch I visited offered shooting lessons with six-shooter revolvers and 22-caliber rifles. I was good at hitting the target. I gained an appreciation for gun shooting as a sport, and increased my understanding of people who love guns. I do not believe in violence and do believe in gun control, but have to admit that shooting a gun is a potent experience. Really, mastering any new skill is empowering.
My learning how to shoot is a metaphor for another change in my life: I learned how to stand up for myself and for others, how to shoot back. Up to this point in my life, I have assumed a deer-in-the-headlights posture when faced with ugly remarks by another person. Momentarily stunned, I do not come up with appropriate retorts until minutes or hours later.
A gay friend, Michael Sharp, who unfortunately was accustomed to dealing with bigotry, taught me an effective way to deal with these unsettling comments. At the very least, he counsels, I could respond with a “wow” to indicate my surprise and displeasure. To drive the point home, without direct confrontation, I can ask for clarification, such as in, “You mean you think that person is stupid?” What I have observed is that, by getting the speaker to repeat the offending remark a few times, they often are embarrassed about the hatefulness they have spewed.
My son is gay, as are many of my friends and associates. An unfortunate colloquialism I have heard far too many times is, “That’s so gay.” This is supposed to indicate that something is unworthy of respect or is something a manly guy would not like or do. It is offensive to me, and I no longer let that comment pass without negative acknowledgment.
I also have friends with children who have Down syndrome or other disabilities. Children with Down syndrome are incapable of hatred or meanness. Those in my life who have disabilities have each made me a better person, simply for knowing them and their goodness. When someone remarks that something or someone is “retarded,” and they mean to disparage the object of the comment in doing so, I call them on their misuse of the word. There are now campaigns to end the use of the “R-word,” by such organizations as Best Buddies.
Words can hurt. I will do my part to raise consciousness around such barbs.
I felt radical shooting this loud, dangerous instrument, and certainly out of my element. Shooting a gun feels powerful. So does standing up for myself and others.
I’m more interested in being good than being famous.
—Annie Leibovitz
I was too self-conscious to perform on stage when I was a young student, though I admired those I knew who did. I worked behind the scenes as a crew member in high school on a few plays, but wished for the courage to perform.
My son is pursuing a career in musical theater. I am blown away when I watch him step on stage and belt out a song with seeming ease and no evidence of stage fright. I would shake and sweat profusely if I had to do that. My voice would tremble.
I once accompanied him to an acting gig he had as an extra on the award-winning HBO show VEEP. His agent got him the job and because he was a minor at the time, I knew I would be hanging around with him all day on the set. So I asked the agent if I could be an extra on the show and she got me on the episode as well.
I learned that television production takes a great deal of time for each scene. I was surprised by the number of takes required. I enjoyed watching the excellent actor Julia Louis-Dreyfus sometimes improvise her lines with her brilliant comedic skill and timing. My son’s takeaway from the experience was that he would rather perform in live theater.
I got a little thrill from seeing myself on the small screen. I next signed up as an extra on the locally filmed Netflix television series, House of Cards. I enjoy the show, and Kevin Spacey would sometimes entertain the extras with witty banter between takes. Because I am short (and maybe because I appear ethnically ambiguous), I frequently got put at the front of any crowd or group scene.
Friends around the country sent me messages when they saw me on the show. Many thought I had a doppelganger. “I could have sworn I just saw you on House of Cards,” people would text me.
I also got work on a political commercial for Planned Parenthood. An adorable baby was put in my arms and I was filmed with her for the spot. Voice-over speech was added in production. A friend said she saw the ad in Las Vegas. I got a small check, a credit for my résumé, and some nice photos I could use for head shots in future submissions.
I took a brief continuing education drama class that was great fun. If I did not have to work as a lawyer to make a sustainable living, I probably would pursue more acting opportunities. There are so many local and regional theaters that can provide outlets for those of us who have an acting itch.
I now subscribe to a free newsletter that advertises work for actors and submit for jobs every once in a while. Some auditions are accepted by video.
I certainly have met a cast of characters on the sets I have visited. I do not make much money as an extra. But it is fun and stretches my comfort zone, occasionally. And the productions usually feed you. . . .
Think you can, think you can’t . . . either way, you’ll be right.
—Henry Ford
On my daughter’s 18th birthday, she asked to go skydiving. I watched as she fell from the sky. I was pacing, sweating, and praying for her safety.
Former president George H. W. Bush went skydiving on his 90th birthday. I do not know if I will skydive from an airplane during my lifetime. Maybe when I am 60, or 70, or 80, or even 90. I did, however, want to address my fear of heights.
Some indoor skydiving places have cropped up around the Washington, D.C., area. Indoor skydiving is the simulation of true free fall conditions—like jumping out of an airplane—in a vertical wind tunnel. It feels like flying, a superpower I had dreamed of and longed for in my youth.
We were given a short bit of classroom instruction before donning the safety gear, consisting of goggles, a helmet, a jumpsuit, and earplugs for the noise. When we entered the tunnel, we were accompanied by a safety instructor who taught us how to control our bodies within the airflow. We each flew in a column of wind created by the vertical, glass-enclosed wind tunnel.
We could choose to fly only in the lower part of the tunnel or 30 feet higher in the upper part of the chamber. I am proud to say that I chose the latter.
Indoor skydiving gets its name from the thrill-seeking sport of skydiving, but the similarities between the two are actually very few. A vertical wind tunnel creates the needed vertical wind flow for indoor skydiving. This simulates the conditions found in free fall without the need to jump from a great height. Because the wind tunnel environment is very controlled compared to the traditional free fall of a skydive, a wider range of flyers can take part in the experience.
An advantage of indoor skydiving is that outdoor skydiving is completely dependent on the weather. Another is that indoor skydiving lasts longer. An average skydive from 13,000 feet lasts less than one minute. Typical indoor skydiving flights last between two and five minutes, which gives people more time to learn how to control their flying. Indoor skydiving has become a worldwide recognized sport. Our instructor treated us to a demonstration of some wild tricks in the wind tunnel. I can see that, with practice, indoor skydiving could be addictive because it causes such an adrenaline rush.
I thought I would be afraid, being so high in the air. But I was not, in this situation. Flying felt liberating, like breaking through another dimension. I loved it.
Indoor Skydiving Source maintains a list of all indoor skydiving facilities throughout the world.4 Anyone over age five can do indoor skydiving. I am now open to trying outdoor skydiving in the future. Are you ready for this type of challenge?
Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.
—Jack London, 1883
Sometimes I still cannot believe I got a tattoo. Sometimes, when I see it, it catches me by surprise. “What is that?” my mind asks. “Did I really do that?”
When I was growing up, tattoos were extremely radical. They were primarily associated with sailors and misfits. Not so much nowadays, with the likes of Angelina Jolie, Halle Berry, Jennifer Aniston, and numerous professional athletes sporting them. But I felt a bit of a bad girl thrill when I was getting mine.
I remember being a bit shocked when one of my former law school roommate got a large phoenix tattooed on her back. She, like me, emerged later in life from a troubled past. Her phoenix is symbolic of her journey. I now understand and respect her choice.
Getting the tattoo did not hurt. Nothing really hurts very much after childbirth, I suppose. It felt more like scratching. The tattoo artist said the big tough-looking guys are usually the biggest babies about the process.
I got the tattoo on the Venice Beach boardwalk. I made sure clean needles were used, since I had been told of the disease hazards of unsterile needles.
Because my job involves gaining credibility with some fairly conservative types—like judges—I got my tattoo on my wrist where it can be covered completely by a watchband. Maybe I will get to a point where I never hide it.
I sometimes wonder what it will look like when my skin loses elasticity. I have seen tattoos on wrinkled skin that are not appealing. I have a friend who makes a lot of money removing tattoos.
Actor Nicolas Cage is credited with saying that his tattoos were outward symbols of inward change. Prehistoric cultures used tattoos as protection charms, good luck amulets, faith symbols, or pure decoration.5 I guess I did mine for all of these reasons.
Aside from feeling a bit rebellious, I got a tattoo on my wrist with a word meaningful to me, to remind me how I want to live my life: “Grace.” Grace means several things to me: “But for the grace of God,” grace of the Holy Spirit, living in grace and not in fear, grace to surrender, and having the grace to accept God’s will, among several others.
Maybe I did not have to emblazon something permanently onto my body. I already wear jewelry that carries messages for me such as “Slow down” and “I am enough.” Some people wear temporary tattoos for a while before getting real ones, to see if they like them.6 I did that, initially. And I have put messages on my cell phone home screen, like “This day,” as in “Give us this day our daily bread,” from the “Our Father” prayer. When I say that prayer now, I stress the words “this day.” I feel more and more mortal as I age and want to remember to relish each day that I have been given.
One disadvantage to tattoos: I lost credibility in telling my young adult children why they shouldn’t get piercings or tattoos. Oh well. They are forging their own paths anyway. And I need to improve at letting them learn from their own mistakes.
Are there outward symbols you would like to employ to remind you of or to celebrate inward change? Of course it need not be via a tattoo. It could be jewelry. I have a ring with a Sanskrit symbol of universality on it that I wear frequently, and a bracelet on which the Serenity Prayer is engraved. It could even be a Post-it on your bathroom mirror. It is just for you, after all. But if you do go for a tattoo, at least go to a reputable tattoo artist/parlor.