Age Musing

I turned 56 the other day. When I say that out loud, I don’t cringe. Or shudder. I smile. I say I bought my red hat pin and intend to wear it proudly on my lapel. But in the inner self, I don’t think I’m so thrilled. Not that the alternative is better. Not that I want to go backwards, except sometimes. Sometimes I do want to go backwards. But with the knowledge I have now. I want to view the world as a twenty-something with the fifty-something mentality. Maybe the world or at least my choices would have made more sense then. Maybe I would have been wiser in some of my choices. Maybe not.

Anyway, 56 is my age. Within that time I have married, helped to raise two kids—successfully I might add. They are wonderful young people. I have worked inside and outside of the home, full and part time. I’ve kept a sort of clean home—the Board of Health hasn’t caught up with me yet at any rate. Is the fact that I have done those things, sometimes well and sometimes not the sum and total of who I am? No. They point to who I am. They are nuances of who I am. But they are not the “me” in my skin. The “me” who listens to Frank Sinatra because I like his voice and the songs. Who sings along with show tunes because I like them and know the words. Who taps her foot to the Who, the Stones and the Beatles as well. The me whose running commentary while driving is not always the nicest, Christian way of looking at things, which is what I claim to be. I was reading a book (of course I was reading a book, I’m almost always reading a book) that said I should observe the way I view my life. For some it’s a carousel, for some it’s a trial. But I thought of mine like a journey. And I’ve been on this journey for 50 plus years. A lot of people my age say they remember saying to their friends when they were much younger, that people in their fifties were old. But I don’t remember saying that kind of thing. My grandmothers were old, but I don’t remember thinking that that was necessarily a bad thing to be. I liked my grandmothers. I never thought of my mother as old. Or my father either. They were ageless entities. Always there. Until my dad wasn’t anymore. But my mother is there and still outside the bounds of age. I don’t know why this is. Age just wasn’t important to me. I didn’t pray to God to make me old enough to drink or vote. I just accepted age as what happened when you lived day to day and you didn’t die before you woke up. I supposed at one time I might have lamented not being old enough for something. But I honestly can’t remember wishing to be older. But I didn’t wish to be ancient either. Or crotchety. Or infirm. I’m not--yet. Will I be? I find myself wondering about “what’s around the bend”. Suddenly thinking of growing older. Its’ a new experience for me.