Sixty-something woman shares ruminations as she plys the latter third of her life with the caveat that age entitles her to be absolutely outrageous whenever possible.
Monday, June 08, 2015
It's my birthday. Not a terribly significant one, that was last year. Seventy big ones. So, now seventy one. Hair is naturally silver. Other hair no longer grows where it once did, and now adheres to upper lip and lower chin. Glasses are permanent fixture, not just for up close work. It could be worse. I can still put my panties on standing up, bend down to pick up the dog toys that litter the little yellow house, and I wield a mean weed whacker. So, not entirely depressed here. I got feted on Saturday, Sunday, and today. Tomorrow is another celebration. I am thinking that one will include cheesecake. And just like usual, summer seems to have arrived. For most of my life I thought I was born in the summer because school always ended around my birthday (I actually graduated from high school on this day, 59 years ago). I now know I was born in the spring. I like that. My only sad note is that mother is still not acknowledging me (long story, some dementia at 94 which only magnifies her earlier disdain, sick sick woman). Therapy in on the horizon again. I will know who I am before I die. Yes, I will.