Please don't call me f#@$y.

Also: Conferences, eclipses, and lamps.

Well, it’s been a minute, as the kids say.

I try my damnedest to write here every other week, but then there are weeks like the last few when I just can’t make it happen. In this case, I was busy with good, fun things. (And one problematic pair of digits.)

1. Getting my Erma on.

I had the distinct pleasure of attending / teaching at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop in Dayton, Ohio last week. What a blast! The vibe was welcoming and encouraging, the keynotes were stellar, and the desserts were abundant. I met some great folks and learned some excellent things. Plus, I got to feel like a VIP: the faculty all stayed on the “concierge floor” of the conference hotel, which had its own little lounge with complimentary snacks and things. You could only get to that floor if you waved your room key in front of a sensor in the elevator—something that only took me 30 seconds of jabbing fruitlessly at the 6 button to finally figure out.

I think a lot of people have the misconception that authors lead very glamorous lives. But actually, the vast majority of us are firmly in the world of OMG I get to be on the exclusive-access floor at the Dayton Marriott and hang out in a lounge with unlimited cheese!

I had to rescue my name tag from the trash in the magical cheese lounge at one point. Fortunately it was laminated.

During the conference, I taught two sessions on writing humorous fiction, and I think they went well, despite my usual Wile E. Coyote moment. It happens whenever I teach or give a talk: I start with a bang, all confident and energetic, feeling good. Then, roughly 4-7 minutes in, I find myself suddenly gripped with impostor syndrome (WHO AM I TO TEACH/SAY ANYTHING? EVERYONE HATES THIS! I AM THE WORST! IS THAT GUY SLEEPING? I THINK HE’S SLEEPING). I’m off the edge of the cliff in thin air, and there’s nothing beneath me. There’s a pizzicato plink, a whistle sound, a crash, and then a roadrunner pecking at my flattened body. But a few seconds later, I’m back up and 3D and fiddling with dynamite and Acme weaponry and Powerpoint slides again, and it’s all good. Phew.

Oh, and welcome to all of the folks from my sessions at Erma that I tricked into signing up for this newsletter! Bwah ha ha. Beep beep.

2. Achieving totality.

Hey, did you hear about the eclipse? Yes, well. I had the great good fortune to be able to zip up to Vermont with my husband last week, semi-unexpectedly, and witness it in full totality: a black circle with a halo of light, in a sky turned suddenly to dusk. It was breathtaking and uncanny. Awe-inspiring and a touch disturbing. I can’t imagine the horror total solar eclipses must have struck into the hearts of people who saw them thousands or even hundreds of years ago. I feel very lucky to have seen one—and to know why I was seeing it, so I didn’t feel compelled to sacrifice my children to the gods or anything.

Speaking of God: you really can’t help wondering if there is one when you consider the fact that our moon is exactly the right size and distance from the sun that it can completely block our view of it—and that human beings happen to be around at this moment in cosmic time to witness it, when those sizes and distances (which have changed over time and will continue to change) are exactly right. Hallelujah, amiright?

3. Fixing a lamp.

This isn’t really a reason why I haven’t written. I just want to brag about the fact that I fixed a lamp. Specifically, the floor lamp in our living room that we’ve had forever, and of which I am quite fond. The switch stopped working, and my beloved husband was like “Welp, guess that’s the end of that lamp,” to which I said: No way, mister. We are grown-ass adults with access to YouTube DIY videos, Home Depot, and decent pliers, and we’re going to fix this thing.

So I bought a new lamp socket, got out the pliers and went to work. (“Be sure to unplug the lamp,” my husband said, helpfully.) When I was done, and I turned the switch and the light bulb actually illuminated, I gave a little yelp of joy.

I am still waiting for my family to express the admiration and kudos this immense accomplishment deserves.

And he wanted to throw it out!

4. Celebrating my second 49th birthday in a row

Fine, fine. I turned 49 + 1. And it was delightful, and I received lots of kind birthday wishes from friends, and a few surprises. The highlight was spending a couple of days in New York with my husband the lamp waster. We took the train down and stayed near Lincoln Center, saw a play and a jazz concert, took a backstage tour of the Met, walked around Central Park, and ate and drank a touch too much. It was perfect.

But I have to confess—with some embarrassment—that I am really struggling with the word “fifty,” and the fact that it now applies to me. It’s weird; it’s not so much about the fact that I’m fifty that age, in a chronological sense. While I do occasionally feel bummed out about (most likely) being more than halfway through my life, I’m mostly grateful that I’m still here.

It’s just that word. Fifty.

“Thirty” felt a little weird (so soon?!) and “forty” felt a touch somber, but appropriate. (I had a Subaru, a mortgage, and two kids, one of whom was in treatment for cancer at the time; obviously I was forty.) But fifty just feels…impossible. Me? Fifty? Ew.

I fully own that my reasons for cringing at the number are rooted in some internalized outdated, patriarchal bullshit. When I hear “fifty-year-old man,” I think of someone who’s still more or less in the prime of their life. Still virile, still vibrant. Maybe getting a little craggily handsome, in a “his wrinkles add character” sort of way. But when I hear “fifty-year-old woman” I think…middle-aged. Past her prime. Losing her looks (the horror!) and sexuality. Matronly and serious. Maybe wearing a big silk scarf?

Like I said, bullshit.

It doesn’t describe most 50-something women I know today, and it certainly doesn’t describe how I see myself (nascent turkey neck and jowls notwithstanding) or how I plan to live my life from this point forward. While I may have lost the bloom of youth, and while I may now qualify for a shingles vaccine (thanks for texting me about this this ON MY BIRTHDAY, CVS) I’m about as happy and vibrant as I’ve ever been. I like the person I’ve become, and the life I’m living. Matronly? Serious? Big scarves? Hell no!

Look, I’m going to do my damnedest to get over the number thing, I promise. I know it’s dumb. But for now, kindly please refrain from saying things to me like “how does it feel to be fifty?” or “happy fiftieth birthday” or “Hey, I’m also fifty.” Even “you don’t look fifty,” is borderline. (But thank you.)

And for anyone who’s about to say “just wait until you turn sixty!”—yeah, yeah, I know. But I’m also hoping that by then I truly don’t give a fuck.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription or paying me to fix your lamp.

P.S. I’ve still got a couple of free Society of Shame Grab Bags (tm) left for book club hosts! Get the details here.