Thursday, August 26, 2010

Turning 40 or any other large number

Recently, my niece reported that her husband was having a crisis:
he was turning 40.
She lamented that he was pretty much acting like a baby.

I sided with the husband. Having birthdays is a big deal.

After all, if you are not having any more birthdays, then nothing really matters. Think about that.

Reaching a particular age can be a rite of passage or inclusion into the AARP mailing list.

However, the passing of age can be traumatic. It was for me.

Each decade except for number 2, was a monumental tearjerker.

At ten years old, I got a bad haircut from my Mother, wore black cat-eye glasses and needed braces. I have the school picture to prove it, but you will never see it.

At twenty, I got contacts; my teeth were straight and had too much fun in college.

At thirty, my family asked, “Why aren’t you married?” We won"t go into that.

At forty, I went shopping. I shopped and cried so long that when I got home, I almost missed my surprise birthday party. My red swollen eyes matched the party hat.

At fifty, I ignored the day, month and year. Then I noticed that gravity became my worst enemy; everything began to droop or fall apart.
I hated Isaac Newton, and still do.

At sixty… I haven’t made it that far.


Today is my birthday. My age is the same as a speed limit. Whenever I see one of those signs, it will be a constant reminder for the whole year. Bummer.

I hope to count more birthdays, but I shall refuse to remember the age.

After all, age represents a large, sequential, obnoxious number.


I hope you have an "ageless" day. Pick up a crayon and color outside the lines; that's what I'm going to do.

Send me a card. Email will do fine at helen.aitken@gmail.com

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