It’s a time for celebration!
Tuesday was the 22nd anniversary of attaining my correct weight and Wednesday was the 62nd anniversary of attaining my first breath.
Now, I realize that – on the grand scale of things – 62 is not that old, and should you be in your seventies, eighties, or nineties (God bless your genetics) please forgive me, but as I’ve pointed out before, this is the oldest I’ve ever been, causing some introspection. Please indulge me.
Understanding that 62 is a milestone in the fact that — if I so choose — I can now legally, officially, get a monthly Social Security check gave me pause to consider other life markers yet to come — and those long gone.
When I turned ten, realizing I was now in double digits, I was convinced I was “mature.”
Thirteen was significant, as I became a man in the eyes of Judaism, having my Bar Mitzvah. I turned 18 the year that we were allowed to vote; 19 put me eligible for the draft; 21 let me drink (legally); at 25, I could rent a car; 30 brought with it a sense of adulthood and 40 locked it in. At 50, the right of passage was the AARP card showing up in the mail.
Growing up listening to the Beetles’ “When I’m 64” makes that year significant. At one point, it seemed worlds away; now it’s knocking on the door. At 65, I believe I get Medicare. Passing 70 and 74 will be significant as those were the ages that my parents passed. My grandfather made it to 86; I fully intend to see that in my rear view mirror also.
Don’t misunderstand; this is in no way a tirade of the woes of aging; I’m not looking at this process at all in a negative sense (okay, maybe a wee bit).
Share and Enjoy
I don’t care how hard one tries to “look on the bright side.” There are times when “stuff” happens and it’s just plain difficult to get back to an upbeat view.
These three tips will help you feel better quickly.
Share and Enjoy
I witnessed a miracle this morning!
Share and Enjoy
I’m impatient, tense, and in a frenzy as I pull up to the intersection to turn right.
The light’s green but because a meandering male pedestrian is wandering unhurriedly across the crosswalk on the street to which I’m trying to turn, I’m stalled.
He’s quite the eyeful; forty and short – maybe five and a half feet tall, with a hobbit-type potbelly.
His brown hair is a bird nest of a toupee with the crown not even pretending to match the temples. He’s adorned in a garish, undersized, well-worn, striped, algae-greenish, polyester sports coat that doesn’t fit him — or the current decade. His trousers are twisted so his fly doesn’t line up with his belt buckle. Neither is aligned with the center of his body, each wrenched askew in a different direction. The waist of his pants is pulled up so high, resulting in the pant-legs being too short, exposing his calves well above his socks. (As a kid, we called those, “high waters” because if there were a flood, you wouldn’t get your pants wet.) Pants, grey; shoes, maroon; socks yellow — he obviously did not have a wife to help him choose his clothes.
Wrapped within his short arms that the sport coat’s sleeves do not cover, pressed to his chest, are too many files in too few folders. While navigating the crosswalk, he’s trying to prevent the papers from sliding out of the packets on to the ground, causing his hands to be constantly in motion, sliding hither and yon across them. Further complicating this maneuver, is his Styrofoam cup full of coffee held at a dangerously perilous angle. With each step, the brown liquid sloshes over the brim of the cup, splashing him and his documents. It’s clearly hot because when it makes contact, he winces.
To top it off, he’s slower than a sloth.
Granted, if I wasn’t so stressed, it might not have bothered me. After all, it was almost like observing the offspring of a gnome and a businessman, and how often does one see that?