I turned 59 last week. Can you believe it? Five-nine. Me either.
Actually, I am blessed because age has never really bothered me. In fact, each birthday that rolls around is cause for confetti, a parade…or at least dinner out. I am truly grateful every day I get to wake up. Now I’m not all Sally Sunshine. Some days, yes, I’m grateful, but then that gratitude can all too quickly morph into being pissed that it’s cold and dreary, annoyed that the internet is down, or God forbid, throwing a pity party because my cold is in it’s second week. If snot was gold, I would be a very rich bitch.
As I’ve heard many of my elderly relative say over the years, the years go by in the blink of an eye. And now I know what they mean. I still can’t get used to my favorite Boston and StyxI songs playing on the “oldies” station. Or qualifying for the senior citizen discount at our favorite breakfast place.
I’ve always been pretty good at keeping up with the times. I can belt out the latest Dua Lipa song “New Rules.” I know that “hooked up” no longer means meeting for lunch. Hell, I even have an Instagram account. I think I come by this naturally, my mom loved Queen and The Police. But I have to admit, I’m starting to feel a little left behind. I’m losing my edge lately. And frankly, my feelings are hurt when I see the “young people” at a wedding dancing and having fun in their cute clothes and I’m now the “old person” sitting at the round table looking at them. So I decide to jump in among them and move to the beat. And I try not to feel self-conscious. And awkward. And out of my demographical comfort zone. Because, I’ve heard that one of the perks of getting older is not giving a shit what anyone thinks anymore. And you know what, I think I’m getting the hang of it. Most of the time I really don’t give a shit now what other people think.
Most of the time.
Well, happy 59th birthday to me and hoping I get the chance to write about 60.