I never imagined that I could ever reach such an ancient bone-chilling spine-humping, arthritically-challenging age.
And why would I want to?
Close to negative.
Un…I could add a hundred “un’s,” but suddenly what comes to mind is UNCOMPROMISING.
I’m realizing that at my un-imaginable age of 60, I don’t need to, and really shouldn’t, compromise.
At 60, I should damn well do what I want, to hell with convention.
Walk for an hour instead of doing laundry? YES!
Kiss my man in public at a restaurant after a tall glass of chardonnay? SURE! (Watch those 20-something waiters put on a yucky face and turn away as if from something obnoxious. I don’t care.)
Un-afraid to do whatever I want to, because
Yes, now I understand.
The perfect age is older than teens, when you can’t figure out who you are, much less what you are.
The perfect age is older than the 20s, when you’re finally educated but don’t know what kind of career, or spouse, is waiting for you at the end of the decade.
The perfect age is older than 40, when you’re in mid-stream of living, as you watch your children stride off on their own uncharted territory, not even looking behind them to see what you’re doing.
The perfect age is older than 50, when you realize that you’re, gasp, older than your parents were when you had discounted them and their accomplishments back when you were 30, and when you realize that you’re shrinking and your hair will never be lustrous nor its natural color again.
However, now at 60 you appreciate the fact that you can do ANYTHING YOU PLEASE.
THE PERFECT AGE.