Best By...

Did you know that the origin of “Best By” dates on food products is linked back to Al Capone? In the 1930s, Capone lobbied for date labels on milk after a family member became ill, presumably by consuming some bad milk. The practice became widespread in the 1970s, as consumers wanted to know the food they were buying in the grocery store was fresh.

With the exception of baby formula, “Best By” dates are not required in the US. “Best By” dates are about quality, not safety. According to the USDA, the “Best By” date is when a product’s quality will begin to decline. It doesn’t mean the food is necessarily unsafe to consume after that date. Heck, I’ve gotten half gallons of milk that were still good a month after the “Best By” date. I think that’s because my fridge runs colder than most. My mom, who grew up on a farm, talks about how when she was a kid, they never refrigerated an egg they got straight from the chicken coop. Today’s eggs you buy in the grocery are cleaned, sanitized, candled, sorted and refrigerated. It’s a wonder anyone from my mom’s generation survived. But I won’t get started on that. As a proud Gen X-er, my childhood was filled with all sorts of potentially deadly activities. Yet, somehow, we survived.

No pads, no helmets, just vibes and centrifugal force. We didn’t play on these; we survived them.

Why am I tattering on about “Best By” dates, you ask? Good question.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately. Not as relates to food, but as relates to life. It occurred to me one day a few weeks ago, that as human beings, we all have an expiration date. We don’t know when, we usually don’t know how, but we’ve all got one.

You know what we DON’T have? We don’t have a “Best By” date.

Yet, that’s not what we’ve been told. As I have aged, it has become very apparent that most people (read: younger folks, although some older folks subscribe to this as well) believe that once you reach a certain age, your best years are behind you. It’s like, “Thanks for all you’ve done, we’ll take it from here.” Feels like we’ve been summarily dismissed to go do whatever it is younger people think that older folk do. I’m pretty sure it revolves around watching Jeopardy and eating supper at 4:00 p.m.

Um...HOLD THE BLOODY PHONE.

This really hit home for me this past week when I got to see my son and his family who were up north for a visit and we collectively went to see my (92 years old this coming Friday) mom at her assisted living facility. I misspoke. Well, first, I mistyped in a text to my mom*, and then I misspoke. It was small. It was inconsequential. It amounted to nothing more than the proverbial hill of beans. Yet I obsessed over it to the point that I later asked my son if he would let me know if I began showing signs of dementia.

DEMENTIA? SERIOUSLY?

All over a mistake that, had I made it in my 20s, I would have laughed at and moved on. Incidentally, I made plenty of those types of mistakes in my 20s - I still laugh about the “lapped chips” incident from 40 years ago. I was sober, so no excuse. It was hilarious.

No. Just no. I’m literally ashamed of myself that the thought even crossed my mind.

I’m not trying to minimize the devastation that some families experience when early onset dementia sets in. I’ve had family members and friends with family members who suffer from dementia and Alzheimer’s and it’s horrific. This is not about that.

This is about knowing that just because I’ve hit a certain age doesn’t mean it’s all over with, except for the final curtain.

In fact, for the FIRST time in my entire life, I feel like the possibilities for my future are endless. I absolutely refuse to spend the rest of my days the way that society believes is appropriate for a woman “of my age.”

I plan to stir the pot. I plan to defy the stereotypes. I plan to have some good fun. I plan for the rest of my life to be an adventure.

I listened to a podcast recently with a world-renowned brain surgeon whose patients suffer from terminal cancer. He told the podcast host that he learned how to identify a well-lived life in his terminal patients by whether the person could say either, “I wish I had…” or “I’m glad I did…” The latter defining the success.

I’m not going to my grave wishing I had. I’d much prefer to go to my grave saying, “I’m glad I did…”

Why is this important? Because my kids and my grandkids are watching. Because I want, more than anything in the world, for those I love to know that it’s never too late. Never.

XX

*The fact that I regularly text my mom and she texts me back is a testament to the fact that age is just a number. My mom rocks!

PS - I am hoping by next week to be able to share a picture of my new home!

PSS - If you’re so inclined, you can buy me a coffee.