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A "Happy 28th Birthday" phone call, to my son living in New York City, was about dealing with disbelief of his advancing years more than my own. Is it just me or do all parents have that cherubic picture of rosy cheeks, twinkling eyes and gurgling laughter ever etched in memory no matter how much a child ages?
On the other hand, the more I think about it, he's right, what difference is a couple of years, give or take? Hmm, another decade! I still haven't decided on what kind of tattoo I should get this time, or where I should put it. For my 50th birthday celebration, it was a much bigger deal to me. I truly felt it was a "coming of age" birthday. For this 60th birthday I'm feeling "so what?" I had to renew my passport, of course, and I do notice that I've aged in my photographs, as to be expected. Guess what, I like my present face. My skin looks not quite so taut, which gives me a softer, gentler countenance. I definitely look as if I have lived life with dignity and grace, even if I say so myself. My fifty-year-old eyes showed some uncertainty, or that "deer in headlights" look, and my smile belied some hesitancy, which was certainly true at the time. My life was undergoing much self-imposed change and direction. One difference is the fact that I had decided to devote some time to my personal growth, and not concentrate so much on putting the boys and career first. So, yep, I've put a whole lot of mileage on these past ten years, literally and figuratively. I think I have dated more in the past ten years than all the prior years added together, which isn't saying a great deal. It began with a wake-up call, while embarking on a two-week voyage around the Greek Islands, solo, as a 50th birthday gift to myself. I was seeking some serious time alone, away from all that was familiar, in order to gain some new perspectives. The year was 1994, tattoos were not that prevalent and I was one of the few females driving a pick-up truck; I still recall all the stares, questions and looks of disbelief. The tattoo parlor experience is a short story by itself. Picture a Ms. Preppy Izod type wearing a wide brimmed straw hat, waiting her turn among the leather clad, chain-wearing Marlon Brando ilk from The Wild Bunch. Hmm, now that I think of it, I'll have to remember to get my butterfly touched up, after ten years it's a little faded.
For a complete listing of article comments, questions, and other discussions related to Judi S. Kaminishi's Aging topic, please visit the Discussions page. |
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