The older I get, the more I seem to struggle with holding onto that new magic number. It seems irrelevant in light of current events and more important matters–like NOT wanting to think about how I’m getting older. But when pushed into offering a number, a simple calculation allows me to easily figure out the number–my age is one year less than my husband (and we even share a birthday month, making it super simple.)
A few months after my 2014 birthday, I found myself readily sharing my age, though. Like some old-timer who had advice for others that only a well-lived live can provide. I’d quip comments like “Well, at fifty-six, I’m not worrying about eating that extra piece of chocolate.” or “Fifty-six, sixty-six– it’s just a number.” Yet I’d wonder how I got there so fast. It was like I’d missed something. Fifty-six actually terrified me. One step closer to the big…no, I won’t even say it.
Then one day I walked past my husband, who worked at the kitchen table, and for some reason started to tease him about being fifty-seven.
“No.” His eyes stayed focused on his computer. “I’m fifty-six.”
“No you’re not. Because I’m fifty-six, a year younger.”
He looked up and shook his head. “You’re wrong. Do the math.”
And I did. I’d been telling everyone the wrong age…for about six months. My missing years, found easier than the Ponce de Leon’s excursion for the legendary fountain of youth!
Relief barely described how I felt at that moment. The rest of the day, I had a lightness to my steps, a smile on my face. Truly, I wasn’t as close to sixty as I’d thought! Only–for the life of me–I couldn’t imagine how I’d lost total control over my age to begin with.
Today I hit the milestone I once embraced almost a year too early. Luckily, it’s not too bad. I think later I’m going to have ice cream cake 🙂
So I ask any of you folks over the age of forty–do you remember your age or have to really think about it?