Birthdays for me are a great celebration. An excuse to do all the things I feel guilty about without the guilt. OK, just less guilty. More cake! More cocktails! More indulging! In my family, a birthday turns into an entire week of excess. We love a good time.
It was more than a bit of a shock to realize this was my 59th year of indulging.
Today, the cold water of being 59 years old hit me square in the face. Fifty-nine and all that implies. The fear of aging, potential squandered (do I still have potential? Did I have potential or am I romanticizing that as well?), fear of aging. There seems to be a part of me, perhaps in all of us, that doesn’t accept aging as a reality.
Ah, denial. I love the denial alternate universe. It’s so easy to live there, where no reality is allowed. I pour a drink while I settle in for a visit. But while using denial as a coping device, I have let time slip away. All the things I meant to do, all the things I imagined I would do/see/accomplish. I had plenty of time. Now I don’t.
We can (and will) have a long conversation about life expectancy, “age is just a number”, etc. But the truth is that the number of vibrant, healthy years ahead of me are fewer than, say at 40. One broken hip, career catastrophe, or family crisis can make for unexpected forks in the road. Every era of our lives brings different challenges, which, in turn, causes different anxieties. The question Continue reading…
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