O Lord, Hubby donned a shirt this morning whose label implied he’d owned it since the early permanent-press era. Laundry instructions: “Tumble dry. Hang on a hanger. No starch.” OMG, that’s a misprint, right? The pictures lie, too, because the shirt can’t be that old!
O Lord, my grandchildren believe I’ve been around since forever. One asked if I knew Betsy Ross. But You truly have been around since forever. OMG, thank You for offering Your expert help to all of us navigating our senior years. Not to mention, our forever!
My husband and I wait in line to see The Rise of Skywalker.
Annoyingly skinny and unwrinkled, few fellow
moviegoers viewed the original film. I am seized with the urge to proclaim — complete
with drumroll and spotlight — “I’ve seen every Star Wars movie since 1977.”
Hubby indicates where his sock hat will go if I do.
Ignoring him, I recall that first, magical night. A
medical student then, Hubby orchestrated a rare evening off. We scraped together
five dollars for tickets. Annoyingly skinny and unwrinkled, we stood in a long
That money could have bought more groceries. This had better be worth it.
da-da-da daaa, da. …”
The music captured me. When “A long time ago, in a
galaxy far, far away. …” crawled up the screen, I followed the words into dark,
I was there.
By movie’s end, this Trekkie admitted Luke
Skywalker and Han Solo could compete with Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock. Besides,
Princess Leia defied an evil empire with battle savvy — keeping her clothes on,
which I appreciated, even back in 1977.
Though I never would twist my long hair into weird
Hubby interrupts my reverie with ticket choices
that didn’t exist 40 years ago. “3-D? Or IMAX?”
A few years ago, I suffered the trauma of changing decades … again.
My husband and I first experienced this phenomenon on my twentieth birthday. I told my then-boyfriend, “Someday, I might even turn 30.”
He looked deep into my eyes. “Let’s grow old together.”
I reveled in our romantic moment—until he, who would not change decades for another six months, said, “Of course, you’ll always be older than me.”
He almost didn’t make it past his teens.
Facing this recent age shift, however, proved harder than facing 20, even if “60 is the new 40.” Yet, who am I to buck mathematical progress? Not only would I like those “60 is the new 40” folks to track my age, I wish they would check my weight. And work for the IRS.
I went further, embracing “60 is the new 30.” Changing decades this last time reminded me of pregnancy. The same gradual belly expansion, losing sight of feet. Wearing the same two waistless outfits, despite a full closet.
Visiting a new restaurant, I didn’t wonder, “Is the food good?” or “Are prices reasonable?” Instead, I asked, “Where are the restrooms?” and “What’s your antacid du jour?”
Still, changing decades again proved more positive than I anticipated.
Years ago, I read in a women’s magazine about an hour make-up regimen for joggers. Seriously.
Today, no one expects me to wear three kinds of lip gloss when I exercise. And run? Spectators applaud if I walk, displaying only mild cardiac symptoms.
Turning 60 also provided peace and quiet. Phone surveyors demanding input from the 35-to-59-year-old crowd suddenly lost interest in my views on Daylight Savings Time, potholes, sock replacement and the Theory of Relativity. I miss sharing my opinions. But what are relatives for?
Travel presents positives, too. When I was younger, flight attendants glared while I heaved my fat carry-on into a compartment. Now — especially if I clutch my back — they heave it for me and later extract it like a wisdom tooth.
That courtesy can’t compare, though, with my first-ever school lunch with my granddaughter. We ate in a claustrophobic room vibrating with jet-engine-decibel noise. Yet that dining experience rated five stars.
Not that I turned down a grown-up dinner out to celebrate my 60th with my spouse. Not only has he increased in wisdom, but I’ve mellowed, too. Maturity is our byword now. …
Na-na-na-boo-boo! I received the senior discount, and he didn’t.
How do you celebrate changing decades? Cruises? Trips to Paris? Extra prune juice?
Oh, my God, tomorrow this 1953 model turns 63. Like its creaky Chevy counterpart, some parts don’t work so well. Still, me and the Chevy get around. But no car’s chassis spreads with each passing year, whereas mine . . . OMG, You are the Designer. Maybe You might fix that?