Thanks Not

I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or ashamed, but possibly both reactions are appropriate.

The number turned into reality months ago, but the suffocating blanket of Covid fear insulated me from its magnitude.

Until this week when on a daily basis I have been asked to recite the date as a form of identity. Each time I do the interrogator takes a second look, and I age more emotionally.

Because I hadn’t really ever thought about age before.

My Mother was always an inspiration walking briskly until her sudden death. Alert, and argumentative about not only family, but politics and her other complaint “Old people.”

But we were always different. Her outgoing personality undoubtedly caused my own reclusiveness. If she were here today, however, I would ask her,

“Mom, how do I act now that I’m old?”

She’d have no patience with me, I know that. As a matter of fact, most likely, she’d reply,

“Anne, stop being so foolish. You’re wasting time.”

And change the subject, most likely to some provoking family matter.

And I know my beloved who sadly never reached this pinnacle of time, would laugh, and say,

“You’re fine. Stop worrying.”

So I realized I’ll just have to figure this one out myself, and this is what I’ve decided.

Despite being viewed as really ancient in other’s eyes, I’m going to try and stay as young as I can.

I refuse to relinquish the new shocking pink blouse for a more appropriate neutral color.

I will not cancel the appointment for color, cut and blow out next week.

I will call Terri, our fitness guru, however, and inquire when she is available for a PT session. I should have never relinquished that gym membership when I moved. I now realize that’s another of my blunders.

And now I’ll begin to smile when I recite the dreaded number needed for ID and remember all the blessings that took place during those amazing years.

As well as the beloved companions I met along the way and give thanks to my Maker.