I'll never tell........

To tell or not….to tell.

I did for a while; I was proud of the fact that I was over 60 and was still a viable, vibrant woman, especially since I learned to dance, putting me in touch with movement and thus,  my body.

I piped up immediately, if someone asked how old I am. The reaction changed, however, as soon as I hit that 6-0 response. No longer did I hear, “What! You don’t look 60!” (I heard that at all ages, right up until this one. At 30, at 40, even at 50. But some key was turned as soon as the big 6-0 carried my birthday cake in, aflame with candles.)

And if a woman happens to be single at 6-0, for whatever reason (and there all kinds of reasons, believe me), heaven help her. Men’s eyes glaze over at the mere mention of a six before ANY number, even the zero. My unfortunate experience with dating sites has proven their point to me: they are for young women.

Not young men, though. Men of all ages, even those with the next digit in THEIR age, have no qualms about filling in that profile page with all kinds of fluff and a photo at least 20 years old (and 20 pounds lighter), knowing all the while that they are looking for a young woman to help them believe their own profile.  Any woman taking their bait who happens to be over 6-0 hears a lot of…… silence. A computer screen is an effective barrier when someone wants to use it that way.

A friend of mine, a woman in her 90s, chided me once for blurting out my age when someone asked. When anyone asked. I thought I could show the world that being a “woman of a certain age” did NOT mean a “shriveled, incontinent, unproductive,  drain on society.” I work out a couple of times a week, I lift more weight than women (and some men) much younger, I work, I dance, I write, I contribute. I am not done yet. Not even close.

But none of that seems to matter. So, I am following my friend’s advice and keeping quiet these days, at least about my age. (I don’t keep quiet about much else, but you already know that, right?)  I can’t unspeak it from all the times I blurted out those digits, but I can hope that people will forget.

Happy birthday to me! And, no, I’m not going to tell you which one it is, either.

A, B, C, and D......it can't be!

There isn't any funny way to say this. And I'm not really laughing too much myself right now.

 

I applied for Medicare the other day.

 

Oh, my......

 

How did this happen? I'm about 25 in my head, complete with fantasies of all kinds as well as a full work load and an active life.

 

I can remember (yes, I DO remember most things) when any discussion about people over about 45 resulted in an inner shudder, thinking about all those OLD folks, decripit and wizened gnomes who could hardly get from armchair to the potty much less from the gym to a country bar. (Fill in the blanks as to why I chose that comparison, which only extends my point.) To be 65 must be practically dead, for pete's sake!

 

And now, here I am, a few months shy of that dreaded year myself.

 

Oh, my......

 

The application process wasn't bad, once I opened all the envelopes that had been arriving in my mailbox for months now. First, I had to read long enough to get into the zone of bureaucratic lingo, you know the one where they use 25 words to say something that really only requires about 10, and includes enough acronyms to sink an alphabet? But once I was there, and knew the difference between Parts A, B, C, and D, I went onto the official website and registered in about 15 minutes. I do think they need some nursery rhyme-type jingle to aid in retaining it all, though. It works for little kids, and I've heard tell that senior citizens often revert to the behavior of children, so maybe it would help? Just a suggestion......

 

There isn't any way possible I can be eligible for Medicare, though. There just isn't. This is going to take some getting used to.

 

I'll let you know how it goes.

  We've put more effort into helping folks reach old age than into helping them enjoy it. ~ Frank A. Clark

 

A birthday tribute......

She will live in my mind and heart as a sunny child, blonde curls bouncing, her smile quick and sweet. My daughter’s twenty-eighth birthday is today, that age when we see that next decade looming ahead, yet aren't quite ready to leave the one of non-stop fun behind. Adult responsibilities are hers now, buying groceries and paying bills, all the things I tried to shield her from as long as I could. At that age, we all believe it will be different for us, only to find the days just as our parents often described, sometimes tedious, sometimes frightening, but often filled with beauty.

            There aren’t many things we can point to in our lives that are perfect. We move through our days bewildered and unsure of our decisions, and then we’re faced with cleaning up after ourselves, wondering what we could have been thinking when we set off on a rocky path. But this child, a woman now, was a being in the universe waiting patiently to find her way to me. Our destinies were determined timeless eons ago, and ultimately that time arrived. I knew her name the moment she was conceived, the instant marked in my heart as well as my body. She spoke it to me, soul to soul, heart to heart, and it was done. I read to her as she laid waiting in my womb, my words falling around us as I rocked her within, the Colorado wind molding a world that sparkled with sun and snow. Then, as she lay in my arms for the first time, we already knew each other well.

            I turned around and she was five, marching off to kindergarten, unconcerned about leaving me behind, knowing I would be there at the end of the day. This was a new adventure to her, something else to be conquered along with basketball or any other ball that bounded across her path. Braces followed when she was 10, another rite of passage along with a failed experiment with eyeglasses. Contact lenses didn’t get in the way of all those balls, so the switch was made, her optometrist amazed at her ability to adjust at her age.

            High school passed in the mere blink of an eye, a blur to me of awards for a tapestry of topics from art to building a successful stock portfolio in economics class. And the balls kept on bouncing, earning her a scholarship to college, one of her fondest dreams realized. My pride burst for her.

            But the image of those blond curls framing the bright hazel eyes of a little girl is still the picture that clicks into focus first when I think of her. Only then is it followed by the reality of her adulthood, a reminder of the march of time for me. I regret many things in my life. Those who say otherwise aren’t paying attention. Some of my regrets involve my daughter: How I handled a normal, yet difficult, teenage situation, or a decision I made on her behalf. But the certainty of her being part of my soul has never been questioned. We knew each other millions of years ago, somewhere, and we knew what our roles were to be. 

 A daughter is a miracle that never ceases to be miraculous...full of beauty and forever beautiful...loving and caring and truly amazing.
-- Deanna Beisser

Conga lines and karaoke.....

I was sweating and it wasn't even time yet. My heart raced just visualizing what was going to happen, my palms got sweaty, and I began to think of excuses for NOT following through on my public proclamation to do this particular ridiculous thing. Not only do it, but carry it out in front of everyone at my birthday party.

Yesterday it was time for the 12th installment of "things I've never done before."  The journey I started on last January, generated by a book called "The Second Half of Life" by Angeles Arrien.

Enough already, you say. How did I embarrass myself this month?

Are you ready?

Karaoke. With a hideous singing voice. And no rhythm, something my dance instructor can now attest to with vigor.

But, hey. Isn't that the same way I felt when I opened that dance studio door for the first time last April? And look what happened with that one: A passion was born for ballroom dance that reconfigured my life in ways I could never have imagined.

So, what was a short song in front of those who love me? My party was in full-swing, and the time arrived. I sashayed up to the stage with a few groupies, and we belted out Linda Ronstadt's "When Will I Be Loved?" I even camped it up a bit, demonstrating some of my newly-minted hip moves at the appropriate places. (You had to be there to know where those places were.)

My life this year has been filled with such delight. I believe this monthly twist has had much to do with that, too. A year ago, I felt old, uninspired, unmotivated. Stale. My world was painted in shades of gray, and the cloud cover existed in more places than overhead. It was also IN my head, leaching color and joy from my life.

I celebrated my 63rd birthday last night, complete with a conga line, a sweetheart dance where I got to dance with about 8 partners within the course of one song, and, of course, a bit of karaoke. I look forward to my next adventure, some activity that I've never tried before or have even feared.

Because, yes, I've decided to continue this journey for another 12 months, and have already picked out where I'm headed in January.

Have you ever ridden a mechanical bull?




For those of you who are new to my adventure, you can find the first one at http://agedtoperfectiondeborahhansen.blogspot.com/2011_01_01_archive.html and catch up.