Nov 18 2008
Why Didn’t I SKIP a Few Birthdays?
Why Didn’t I SKIP a Few Birthdays?
I recall the pangs of aging. Each birthday represented another year toward death. Not a celebration…not a party, just another reminder of our own march toward the end. Depressing? Damn right.
There are those “special” birthdays: 16 (guys don’t get kissed), 21 (buy legal alcohol and begin killing yourself), 25 (insurance rates go down and you can rent a car).
There, that pretty much ends the positives.
Next comes: 30 (no longer to be trusted by the young), 40 (over the hill), 50 (AARP time), 55 (some 10 percent discounts, but officially a “senior citizen”), 60 (just plain old), 62 (well in Montana anyway, free skiing and free fishing licenses. Big deal), 65 (sign up for Medicare part B and for those born prior to 1946, full social security), 66 (full social security for me).
For some reason that I can’t explain, there were certain birthdays that I recall with particular pain: 29, (married, kids, no career, about to become “middle-aged”), 32 (I didn’t even come out of my bedroom–serious depression), 46 (I was in the oldest 1%…one percent!…of the U.S. military), 49 (maybe just because the next year I would be 50).
Birthdays I don’t want to skip: 70, 75, 80, 85, 90. After that, I don’t care.
Tomorrow: The Great American Smokeout November 20
Yesterday: Why Didn’t I Become a Librarian?
I’ve loved each birthday, getting older doesn’t bother me, not really. I’m 53.5, still married to the same man for 32 years, mother to 2, grandmother to 1, retired comfortably, life wasn’t like this when I was a young adult.
I wouldn’t go back to being young for any reason, I like where I am just fine!