My forty-two year old sister Eunice has apparently been watching too many Chardonnay commercials. She is convinced that life, like wine, gets better with age and is seriously looking forward to turning 50. (This she revealed to me on my 45th birthday.) And in celebration of the passing of half of my life, (should this really be called a celebration?) I am taking a trip to Brazil.

Facing the loss of one's youth is made somewhat more tolerable with the knowledge that you have been blessed with offspring old enough and generous enough to afford you a trip to Brazil. Yes they did, my two sweet daughters bought me an airline ticket for my birthday. My 22-year old daughter, Angie, her fiancé, and his parents will accompany me. What better way to get to know my future in-laws who, by the way, happen to own a condominium there.

As I write this, I am on the last leg of the flight to Fortaleza. Fortaleza is not a tourist town, but a nice little respite a few hours from Rio De Janiero. But excuse me while I take a short nap, this has been a long flight and you know with this middle-age thing and all, I can now legitimately justify the occasional, unscheduled shut-eye.

In my lifetime this will be as close to the equator that I will ever get and I plan to make the most of it. When I sport my neon orange, two-piece swimsuit, I plan to get a long-awaited suntan. My daughter told me that everyone here - from age 8 to 80 - wears a bikini. There is no shame in their game, or mine. (This is especially easy to say while on another continent.) However, I do have my limits; after all, there is a distinct difference between a two-piece swimsuit and a bikini. The first allows you to hold on to some of your dignity, especially after the baby-making era. But one-piece suits are unheard of here, so when in Brazil do as the Brazilians do. I plan to indulge, even though I have not worn a two-piece swimsuit since my doctor informed me many years ago that the skin sagging around my navel would never disappear, no matter what I did short of a surgical procedure. The aftermath of childbirth can be so cruel. But what's a gal to do? The beach and my orange, gold-ringed swimsuit await. I soon convince myself that nothing is wrong with a little flab among strangers, especially while hiding behind dark shades.

As I wind up my trip, I must say that I have had a great time. The weather was warm, the food was good, and the natives were kind, especially since we did not speak Portuguese. The language seems to be an eclectic mix of French and Spanish, but we made out okay, with my daughter's broken Spanish and my limited recollection of high school French. And oh yes, before I forget, I must tell you that the shoes here are very reasonably priced and cute. You see, the exchange rate is 1 U.S. dollar to 3 in Fortaleza. So I am loving life and my new sandals.

The only disappointment was that I did not actually get the tropical tan I was looking for. It is the rainy season here for the first 5 months of the year, but oh well.

Upon my return home I must confess that my sister may be right. I used to think that middle age only sends us into a downward spiral toward the perils of arthritis, glaucoma, and the ever-hovering possibility of Alzheimer's. However, now that I have arrived I'm not so sure.

Life, like wine, really does get better with age. Unfortunately though, some things will never change. Therefore, my orange, cellulite-revealing swimsuit is destined to forever remain at the bottom of my dresser drawer, never again to see the light of day, and soon to be just a fond memory of what could have been on that balmy night in Brazil.

Ciao.

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