Birthdays were always a big deal in my family. Party hats for all, including the dogs. I can’t remember a year when I haven’t been
excited about an approaching birthday, except for my 30th. Of the generation whose mantra was “Never
trust anyone over 30,” when my time arrived to cross that threshold, I took to
my bed with a bottle of tequila.
I look back at that silly girl now and want to tear
off the covers, tell her to get her ass up and seize the day because they truly
are numbered. I’d assure her that, while
the 30s will continue to be a struggle to find herself, the 40s will totally
rock. The 50s will bring some difficult
lessons, but she will become like quicksilver in her ability to adapt, and
nothing will be able to hold her down for long.
Sixty will come in like a lion and, long before Katy Perry ever thought
of it, she will hear herself roar.
She would probably respond, “Who are you,
old lady?” And “Get the hell out of my
bedroom.” But I will have at least
tried.
I don’t understand those who say they hate
birthdays. It was long my custom to
announce on April 1st that there were only 20 more shopping days
until mine. What’s better than being
surrounded by friends with booze, gifts and cake? Sure, there is that getting older
thing. Body parts begin migrating to
places heretofore unoccupied. Crone
hands make an appearance. And a “lube
job” takes on a whole new meaning. But
if those are the worst things happening, all the more reason to celebrate.
There are several milestone birthdays: 16, the driver’s license birthday; 18, the
right-to-vote birthday; 21, the right-to-get-legally shitfaced birthday. Then that long road until 62,
the-Social-Security Birthday. This year
I celebrate the Medicare birthday. The
last one with tangible perks.
Woo-hoo!
Whenever I’m tempted to bitch about getting older,
I think of those whose lives are cut short – who never get to realize their
full potential – and I shut my mouth. I
suspect that with age, we aren’t lamenting the loss of our youth, but rather
the loss of our future. It’s hard to
watch the years fall away with seemingly ever-increasing speed. Yes.
What’s up with that Neil deGrasse Tyson?
I like it here.
I want to stay. Another 30 years
or as long as I can still sit a horse would be good. I’m enjoying the most creative period of my
life with lots still left to learn and accomplish. This is not a time to rest on laurels. The Universe will think you’re done. Seventy.
Eighty. Bring ‘em
on. And ninety? That’s going to be awesome.
I’m booking the restaurant now.
