Happy Birthday to Me! Turning 68 and Feeling Great?

Turning 68 and feeling great? No, that’s not a punctuation error; the question mark is correct. I’ve only been 68 for a day, so I’m not sure what it will be like, but I know I have some conflicting emotions about another year added to my number. The 15-year-old girl in the birthday picture above is somewhat shocked by how quickly she ended up here. If it’s true that we always feel the same age inside, why doesn’t my body pay attention to that cliché?

The cliché that makes more sense to me as I get older is, “Getting old isn’t for sissies!” I’ll agree with that one! (If you’ve already guessed that this blog is going to contain many cliches, you’re smart as a whip!) My husband and I are both relatively healthy and stay active by participating in runs, swims, and triathlons, yet amidst athletic events, our calendar is also littered with doctors’ appointments. We’re like vintage automobiles that need frequent and expensive tune-ups to avoid unexpected breakdowns. Our memories and hearing aren’t what they used to be, so we go together, assuming the two of us together add up to one normally functioning person. Robert Browning was a mere pup when he wrote, “Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be.” Ha, what did he know about growing old at the tender age of 52? He probably still had a full head of hair and no aching joints at that age.

Funerals and memorial services are also becoming too common events on our calendar as we are dragged reluctantly into the sad stage where friends and acquaintances are dying. A 30-year-old wouldn’t understand that 70 feels too soon, but it feels that way to us. It seems wrong that if I died now, no one would say I died young. I recently found out a college roommate had died, and although we had lost touch several years ago, her death hit me unexpectedly hard. It sounds dramatic and a bit narcissistic, but her death felt like a piece of my youth had died also.

Ann was one of my college roommates almost fifty years ago. There were seven young women sharing a big pink house a few blocks off campus. It was a unique, old house with an elevator, six bedrooms with balconies, and a flat roof you could climb onto and gaze at the stars. Besides the house, we shared bills, clothes, and friends. As you can imagine, with seven people living in one house, there were often heated debates. We quarreled over bills, noise, eating each other’s food, and wearing each other’s clothes without permission. We also shared late-night conversations, laughter, study sessions, meals, and legendary parties that went into the early morning hours. We were young and living on our own for the first time. We were helping each other find our way in the world, forming a tight bond that I couldn’t imagine would ever be broken. Ann was the first of the “Pink House” girls to die, and even though I hadn’t seen her in years, the world feels less complete without her in it, and my mortality one step closer.

Beyond the death of my college friend, additional deaths have been brought to my attention recently because I am about to celebrate my fifty-year high school reunion. (Fifty years! Gasp!)  Celebrating may be the wrong word. The reunion marks a significant milestone in time, which is a more realistic way to phrase it. Anticipating reuniting with classmates highlights how many of my peers have already passed and won’t be joining us as we reminisce about the good old days, while sucking in our stomachs and hoping the lighting is dim enough to hide our wrinkles. Despite the extra weight and bald heads, we’re the fortunate ones who remain to mark the passage of time.

A friend who will be sorely missed at the reunion is my best friend, Susie. Friday nights were spent cruising “The Strip” in Susie’s blue MG convertible, our long hair streaming behind us as we drove up and down the restless ribbon. We spent hours debating the best nail color, talking incessantly about boys we liked, and avoiding the homework we were supposed to be doing. Susie will forever be frozen in the picture my parents took in our living room the night we double-dated for the Senior Prom. Although our lives eventually went in separate directions, it feels unbearably sad that she won’t be at the fifty-year reunion. How can so many of my friends already be gone? Every death of a peer feels like a piece of my youth being chiseled away. Turning 68 may be painful, but it’s better than the alternative! (Cliché number three if you’re keeping track.)

Susie and I with our dates before the senior prom. Wasn’t that just a few moments away?

I’m not emotionally prepared to be old, to feel the loss of friends, or to face my mortality, but is anyone? Time is a thief. The years are being stolen as I sleep, despite the chronic insomnia demanding I stay awake to capture them as they rocket past me.  Time is flying by, and I can’t seem to convince it to slow down.

In a fruitless endeavor to slow the passage of time, some people subtract a few years from their age and pretend to be younger. Even though I wouldn’t mind being a young thing in my fifties again, I always proudly claim my true age. I took some perverse pleasure in being the oldest woman to participate in my last triathlon. I’m hanging on to my athleticism by a thread, but I’m hanging on as long as I can! There are some advantages to being older. Besides the obvious senior-citizen discounts, there is the gift of retirement, which gives us the freedom to forgo setting alarms and spend more time doing whatever we want. Sometimes, on the really good days, it seems the calendar must be lying because I still feel the same age inside as I did forty years ago. However, the mirror is, unfortunately, in cahoots with the calendar, and a wrinkled old woman who looks surprisingly like my late mother looks back at me. I couldn’t possibly be delusional, could I?

I’ve experienced sadness and mourning, but I’ve also had an abundance of love and happiness in my 68 years. In the last nine years, I’ve gained two grandchildren, and with their births, I assumed the greatest role of a lifetime – becoming a grandmother! Their lives and our close relationship have enriched my life immeasurably. My grandchildren are my reward for growing old and my motivation to make healthy choices so I can be in their lives as long as possible. I plan to live every day to the best of my ability, continue setting goals, seeking new adventures, and keeping my slightly battered heart wide open to love. Part of the wisdom gained from aging is knowing that love is truly the most worthwhile gift worth pursuing.

Is 68 great? I don’t have a crystal ball, but I’m going to do everything in my power to make it that way. I will live intentionally, be happy, and grab joy wherever I can find it. I plan to keep moving, albeit more slowly, because movement keeps our bodies and minds healthy. I’m sure 68 will come with challenges, but I am going to work to find positive aspects to balance out the negative. It may take a little more searching and more effort, but that’s OK. I have 68 years of experience and wisdom to assist me. I’ve lost track of all the cliches I’ve used, but I know it’s a lot! I feel confident enough to remove the question mark and say emphatically, “Sixty-eight is going to be great!”