notevenhalfwaythere

I got a call on the home phone the other day. The Caller ID said “Illegal Scam.”

So, I of course answered it.

Here was Caller ID practically screaming at me, “Don’t take this call! These people want to steal your money, your identity and quite possibly your soul and your Tupperware Velveeta Cheese Keeper, but not necessarily in that order!”

It didn’t matter. I answered. In an unmatched test of willpower, I did resist waiting to get beyond the automated greeting to talk to a representative about lowering my mortgage rate.

I know I should not have picked up. I also know I have no actual need for a home phone.

I can’t help it. The call itself was like an audible wet paint sign. I can’t not touch the wall and see if it’s actually wet. It’s simultaneous curiosity, bull-headedness and misguided double-dog dare wrapped into an action that draws my hand to the wall like ants to cat barf. (I don’t actually know, having never had cats, if ants are drawn to feline vomit. An editor just always used that expression, and I found it both compelling and disgusting. Sort of like a Little Debbie Snack Cake.)

And, when I pull my hand away from the wall without paint on it, it’s like I’ve won a tiny bet. With myself. That I will never pay out on.

There is something about the implied don’t that makes me want to do exactly what the universe, or in the case of the crosswalk, the flashing sign, is telling me. The crosswalk sign doesn’t know whether I can get across four lanes of road in six seconds. But it telling me I can’t ensures that I will risk bodily harm and potentially breaking a heel to try to prove it wrong.

I don’t try and do things to deliberately harm myself. But the very act of telling someone not to do something is what compels him or her to do exactly that.

It’s like when you get a CT scan, and the small sign by the light tells you “don’t look directly into the laser.” I try not to. Then immediately wonder if the smell I think I am smelling is my retinas burning.

I imagine something like this was going through the mind of the guy in Texas, who last week, upon seeing a sign that said “No Swimming…Alligators” declares aloud, “F*** that alligator!” And then proceeds to get eaten by said alligator.

He apparently took off his shirt and took his wallet out of his pants before jumping into the water. No word whether the wallet was alligator. Or if the wall that held the warning sign had wet paint. Or if there is an underwater sign for the alligators that says, “Don’t eat the swimmers.”

Yep, I answered.

I love the movie “Love Actually.” Particularly the opening scene in the international arrivals terminal at Heathrow. It may be a professional bias. It may be because I am in an airport twice a week every week. It may because I spend the majority of time on the departures side of the airport, and have arrivals greeting envy.

There is love, actually, on the departures side of the airport. It’s just brief. And rushed. And consistently disproportionate to that on the arrivals side. Sort of like the physical manifestation of the eight hotdog bun pack living in a 10 hotdog pack world.

And it’s understandably so. On the departures side, one person is getting on a plane…leaving…and one person is not. I saw a goodbye last week where the wife set her bags down and was reaching in for a warm embrace. And she got a cold fish, alligator arms, kiss in return. He was in the car driving away before she left the curbside.

I dropped my middle daughter at O’Hare this week for a school trip to Europe. Her second in the last three years. (Remember when you went to Europe twice in high school? Yeah, me neither.)

Upon meeting her group, it was clear she could not wait for me to leave. “Mom, there are no other parents in line with us, you need to go,” she told me.

“Is it my fault that I love you more than all the other parents love their kids?” I asked.

“It’s true, Liv,” another friend who overhears us offers. “My dad dropped me off outside and said ‘good luck’ so be happy your mom at least walked you inside.”

I leave the line, passing another group where one girl says to another, “I can’t believe my mom was crying. I was like, ‘why are you crying?’ ”

I did not offer my answer. But here is what I said to her in my head: She was crying because despite your teenage awfulness, and sounding like an extra in “Valley Girl” she probably still checks on you while you are sleeping to make sure you are breathing. Like she did when you were a baby. And yes, she has probably done that for 17 years.

She probably also saw “Taken.” And she is probably not married to Liam Neeson. So that’s problematic.

Being the one to leave the airport, and not the one to take off in a plane from the airport, is hard. It’s why I, much like Billy Crystal’s character in “When Harry Met Sally,” never drive anyone to the airport.

I did, of course, make an exception for dropping my daughter off for her European tour. And while I was so happy for the adventure she is going to have, I was sad as I was not going to see Barcelona and Nice and Rome with her.

Until then, I have that international arrivals “Love Actually” moment to look forward to. In about nine days. But who is counting?

On a milestone birthday, my older brother announced: “I’m old; I don’t care anymore.” It was his way of declaring freedom to say whatever he wanted without filter.

He was 30.

As I hit a different milestone, I find myself thinking similarly. Not that I feel old. I feel way more like 30 than I do my 50 years. Thanks to good genes, my hair color and eyesight are still unassisted. Though I do think there is a special place in hell for the restaurants that use smaller than 10 point gray type on golden-colored menus and have dim lighting. That’s not elegant or sophisticated. It’s just mean. And you are practically forcing me to frequent places with pictures on their menus. I mean IHOP’s Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘N Fruity pancakes need no words.

And it’s not that at this age, I don’t care. I do care. About big things. Like my kids and what their future looks like. And leaving people, situations and the planet in better shape than when I found them. And bacon. Not necessarily in that order.

But at this age, I find there are fewer little things I care about, like:

• Being unfriended on social media. I’m comfortable enough in the virtual, not real and actually largely fake online world, that if someone does not want to be my “friend” or date me or follow me, I’m ok with it. I just pretend that they are like a Tamagotchi that died.
• Intolerant people. If you start a sentence with “Not to be (mean, racist, a homophobe, lactose intolerant),” you already are. And I’ve probably already mentally unfriended you. For reals. Except for the lactose intolerant. Of whom I am very…tolerant.
• The Kardashians, The Bachelor/Bachelorette or any of the ironically named Real Housewives. I must keep up with the aforementioned to carry on pop culture conversations with my children. And my work colleagues. But I refuse to follow any of them on Twitter. I am super badass like that.

Halfway there

My middle daughter likes to greet people who are turning 50 by saying, “Halfway there!” Assuming of course everyone lives to 100, which is somewhat impractical.

I know too many who tragically never made it to this age. And others who died long before their bodies gave out. We all know the zombies of which I speak. I like the concept though….halfway there. What’s ahead? How best to build on where you’ve been? Where’s the next rest stop? Are we there yet?

I got in a spirited debate once with a client I was traveling with years ago. About whether success was a journey or a destination. He argued destination…as though you arrived at success as the culmination point. I argued success was a journey…one you never actually arrived at. Sort of like trying to check out of the Hotel California. To be fair, I was young, and my argument was completely based on a Successories poster I had seen at the mall.

With Olivia…the originator of the Halfway There! welcome to 50 greeting.

Even sans cliched motivational poster talking point, I do think it’s a journey–success, life, storing bad 80s hairband lyrics in your brain. Which is good. Because I just saw that the world’s oldest person this week celebrated her 116^th birthday. I’m not even halfway there.