I Just turned 65.
I've had birthdays that seemed to mean something, 16 and driving and potentially dating, 21 and drinking and potentially finding a true love (though 16 year old hook on the same thing), 35 (it's usually 30, but at 30 I was pregnant and apparently that stopped other associations) where I suddenly realized that I was never going to get younger or be young or whatever. It was so traumatizing that I couldn't remember how old I was going to be, telling people 37 or 32 or other things. It's like I had a moment of dementia-like denial. After that, 40 was nothing.
Fifty, on the other hand---half of 100, 2/3 of the years my mother had, I quit smoking, had a new grandbaby, took a day job with mostly desk work, that was a thing. It's like the first half of my life was officially over, and I hadn't done all the things I wanted, but didn't really want to do them anymore, anyhow. At least I could remember my age.
Sixty-five, though.
That is the gateway to old age.
I retired at 62 to do something I loved instead of just stuff I was good at but hated.
I have painted and quilted and made things that are beautiful.
I also had the home I loved flood, sold it and bought a house for 45,000 dollars (probably overpriced, but it's paid for). It now has 28 piers, new concrete in the garage and on the driveway (previously looked like someone broke two bags of gravel in the car space and the garage had pallets for floor, complete with termites), termite treatments, new kitchen cabinets and nice granite countertop--I save an intact bit of cabinetry and like it very much, the rest was pure survival, no one apparently ever cooked in the previous 94 years.
I'm awaiting the electrician for the garage, the house painter, and the roofer---the world is backed up, everyone has put what money they have into fixing their home--I guess that the pandemic made everyone a house-body.
After those three things, I'm painting the two bedrooms, redoing the bathroom complete with chandelier over a claw foot tub, and custom cabinets--should be cheap, the whole room is the size of a postage stamp. Things were different in 1925.
But, this week, 65, 65, 65, it keeps rolling through my head. I've wondered if I should have kept working. I've wondered if I should have bought a RV and travelled--which is nuts--I hate travelling. I've wondered how long I have left.
That's the one. Nothing screams mortality like 65. I can walk around looking like an overstuffed couch, bright blue eye shadow or no makeup, cut my own hair or put in 6 ponytails, wear tight clothes from the 1980's or gunnysacks, it's all the same. My appearance is off-limits.
I'm officially old.
Not ancient.
But plenty of folks never become ancient.
My next goal is to continue making stuff--art, crafts, home projects--until I'm ancient.
I don't know what number will fit ancient yet---so far 100 sounds good but I know everyone's is different.
Happy birthday to me.
