As many of you know, we had a little "baby shower" down in San Diego this weekend.  Baby shower being code word for a carefully orchestrated surprise Baldridge family birthday party for Dan.

The idea got started (as my brother, Dean, noted in his roasting comments) two years ago when my Dad's first wife, Pat, gave (what she thought was) her final 50th birthday party for Dean.  She commented that she was done and Dan piped up with the idea that since his name began with "D" (as do the 4 Baldridge boys' names) and since he'd been in the family quite a long time, he deserved a party, too.

Enter Pat, Donna and I.  I asked.  Pat hosted.  Donna did the work (along with help from the next generation, Deanna, our niece...and nephew Matt's girlfriend, Erin).  Dad and Sally conspired so that it looked like Sally was taking me to a baby shower and Dad was taking Dan out to dinner to pass the time.

Dan was completely surprised (Woohoo!) and a festive time was had by all.  Unfortunately, my hands shook too much (a little excitement!) to take really decent photos...I'll weed through them (and fix my photo program) and post them later.

Happy 50th Dan...and congratulations on being part of our wacky clan for nearly 28 years! 

(Full disclosure:  This email is about Dan.  I know I have been given a "my life is not blog fodder" directive by said person but in this case, an exception was warranted.  IMHO.)

When I was 18 years old, I wrote a poem about a middle-aged woman who had hurt my mother.  I frequently took my writing back to Madison High School, to Mr. Robinson's class, for his take on my efforts.  Here's a poem I wrote and took to him.

Act Your Age

You are
middle-aged thinness
massaged into tight jello packages.
You try too hard
to find life in perpetual youth.

Skin sizzled so often to that perfect bronze,
at 50 it makes a dull, midwestern print
of the wrinkled material
you pinch and paint into a face.

The lowered, booming laugh
nervously echoes
out of the bloodspattered tool
you use to dissect others,
cut them down
to size.

Someone should shout into your cultured ear
the secret you scamper for.

Life is not a new Audi Fox.
Hearts were not made to be sacrificed
to your god of immortality.

Someone has slapped you to say
I care.
Rub the bruise,
turn the cheek,
hurt,
and begin to live.

Mr. Robinson had a two-word comment for me.  "Tough poem." 

At the time, I took it as a compliment.  But now that I'm approaching (on tiptoe) my own 50th birthday (2 1/2 years and counting), I see that he was making less of a comment about the craft of the poem and more of a comment about its perspective.

I'm not sure why the poem came back to me today.  But it has resonated.  And while no one could accuse me of middle-aged thinness, the line about tight jello packages hits a little close to home for this workout addicted gal.

There's a line, fine and hard to locate, between pursuing health and keeping the perspective of youth--life and adventure outweighing caution and aging.  I'm not sure where the line is exactly, but I hope that I'm erring on the side of adventure.

If that causes an 18-year-old to occasionally wish I'd act my age, I guess that's a good thing.  I understand where they're coming from.  And I know that someday, they'll appreciate where I'm coming from, too!