It was November, 1937 and the country was in the middle of a depression. The New York Yankees won the World Series, beating the New York Giants 4 games to 1 with the help of Joe DiMaggio and Lou Gehrig. Route 66 was completed, “Gone With The Wind” won the Pulitzer Prize, Amelia Earhart disappeared over the Pacific Ocean, Bugs Bunny made his debut—and so did I. Aging is not for the faint at heart. After the age of 29, it takes real guts to keep having birthdays. The older I get, the more I realize that all birthdays are not created equal. Who needs equality anyway? As we continue to have birthdays, it’s all about equity. This year finds me with 84 years of accumulated equity. I jokingly tell people I was the original Thanksgiving turkey, as my birthday often falls on that holiday. This Thanksgiving week I find myself feeling blessed as I celebrate another birthday while remembering a few of the past ones.
When I had my 64th birthday, I told friends and family I was celebrating my 16th birthday for the fourth time. A short time before my 65th I received a letter from my health care insurance provider, which went something like this: “Congratulations, you are about to reach a milestone in your life. In just six months you will be 65.” My pooch was by my side when I opened the letter. After reading it, I threw myself on the floor and began kicking and screaming, “Awaah, I don’t want to be 65!” My poor pooch was running around me yapping and licking my face, telling me it was going to be O.K. I did survive the trauma of turning 65. My, these last nineteen years have sure flown by fast!
Then when my 70th birthday rolled around it didn’t get off to a stellar beginning. About 10 days prior to my birthday, I found myself sitting in my doctor’s office, hearing him tell me I might have a torn meniscus in my left knee and he was going to send me to orthopedics for an MRI. Whoopee! I couldn’t even turn cartwheels to show how excited I was about that diagnosis. I was thinking more like I had badly sprained my knee and the doctor would tell me to lounge around, relax with ice packs, etc. and have The Mr. bring me chocolates.
I just shook my head in disbelief and told the doctor I was turning 70 and falling apart. The Mr. quipped, “Yeah, kind of like a Model T.” The doctor replied, “But at least we have the necessary parts to put her back together.” The Mr. remained in deep trouble for a long time for making his snide remark. If there is one good thing about being 84, it’s the fact that I don’t have to make excuses for anything anymore. So what if I can’t remember squat? I’m 84. No more pretending I’m not growing old. Heck, I have kids who are adults. I even have grandkids who are adults. I may be old, but at least I’m not ancient—well, maybe!
Now that I’m approaching 84 I really appreciate birthdays a lot more. Being 84 means I’ve cleared the age defining hurdle and I’m still in the race. I’m hoping my senior discount will double now that I’ve passed the 80th milestone. Friends ask me why I’m dragging bottom. Granted, most of my body parts have gone south, some maybe even as far as Mexico, but I certainly don’t need any insults about falling apart.
I’ve decided that when the Grim Reaper shows up at my door, I’ll hit him with a cane, throw myself on the floor, kick and scream, “Not yet! I’m still enjoying the ride!”
The Rejoicing Soul 