Friday, July 21, 2017

     How old will we be before we say, “I’m too old for that!” For me, Never. I will continue to stretch until I can’t think, move or speak. I will perform, take risks, step out of my comfort zone (which is widening every year) and “go for it” as long as I am on this planet. How about you? Have you said already,”I’m a little old for that, don’t you think?” If you are under 90 and have said that, think again. The older we get, the less time we have to do whatever we choose. It’s never too late to dare greatly. I know I have written about daring greatly many times, but sometimes people have to hear things and witness things for themselves before they believe.

2013


     Yesterday, a woman of at least mid to late-70s polished my toes at a spa. Maybe she was one of those who looked older than she was, but I admit, I did look at her hands to see if they were shaking. They weren’t. She talked about knowing my friend’s mom, and my friend is 60. I suppose that doesn’t prove anything except that maybe I am not listening to myself. Why shouldn’t this woman polish nails, even if she does shake, and even if she’s 90? It’s just a number, this age thing. 

     Why am I talking about age again? Because my birthday is approaching, and it’s hard to avoid thinking about your age on your birthday, no matter how young or old you are. I thought to myself the other day, “What will I do that’s special on my birthday?” The most obvious sign of age came in my response to myself, “It’s just another day.” No, it isn’t just another day, in one sense, and yet, in another, it is. In the first sense, it’s just another day to celebrate all the blessings I am so fortunate to have:  my health, my boundless energy, my loving family and friends, my feet that still strut in my stilettos. Yes, it’s just another day to celebrate what I celebrate every day. Yet, it’s not just another day; it’s my birthday. Birthdays were always special in my family growing up. 

     My mom used to put out her birthday cards on the counter and count how many she got. I recall there were probably 40 or 50 every year. She was very proud of that. I must admit, I do count my cards, but I don’t get half as many as she did. Of course, she was working then, and I’m not, but who cares? 

      Most of my cards have stilettos on them so I guess my close friends know what my signature is. As the old woman was gently painting my crooked toes, she patted them as though they were precious jewels. 

     On this birthday, I find myself praying for friends who are hurting, thanking the Big Guy for all I have and hope to keep (my wits, etc.), and looking forward to perhaps my one Cosmo of the year (now that I can no longer drink). 

      Why would you care about all of this? Why would you want to read about my birthday? I don’t know. Maybe there is some wisdom tucked into my rambling, but it’s my birthday and I’ll ramble if I want to:)








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