Yesterday was my birthday. It was a “decade” birthday, but like most women, I’m not offering details on exactly which one. And any well-bred man or woman would never ask. At one time, it might have bothered me to begin a new numbered decade, but now I’m just glad to have reached this one. I figure if I live to 100, I’m now middle aged, so you figure it out. Or I could be lying about my age as most women are prone to do.
Although I’m not at full-scale war with signs of aging, I’m a regular purchaser of anything Olay. If it promises wrinkle delay or reversal, I’m all in, and I’m a firm believer in the power of sunscreen. It’s amazing that although my grandmother at this same age was so very old, I haven’t followed suit. How could anyone my age be so young? After all, if Christie Brinkley can still appear on the cover of Sports Illustrated and Kathie Lee Gifford can begin a whole new career, then I’m sure I can do the same. Well, maybe not the cover of SI, but I am open to a new career.
I’m thinking that what keeps me so young is the farm and animal life that I’m immersed in. Our daughters are officially in the rat race of building careers and completing degrees, so the farm is no longer a priority for them, much as they’d like it to be. Because I’m not working this summer, I spend many mornings rearranging horses, picking stalls, and making sure no one goes hungry. I get plenty of exercise climbing over locked gates and lifting incredibly heavy forkfuls of horse manure into a wheelbarrow or pitching it out of sight. It’s definitely a workout but probably no more than a yoga class and a whole lot less expensive. I have the fresh air, free weights, and even a bit of space for meditation in my alone time.
Part of what I ponder in my solitude, especially this week, is how fortunate I am to continue to have birthdays. Actually, that’s true for anyone, no matter what age, as no one is promised tomorrow. But you really don’t think about that when you’re less than 10 years old, like, say, 8 ½. In fact, that begs the question, “When do you stop adding the ‘and a half’ to the year?” At some early point in life, we all feel we’ve reached the pinnacle, I think, and stop adding fractions to the age. We just wisely realize that we’re fortunate to keep having birthdays and count them in whole units. I’m certainly not looking to add fractions anymore but I also won’t protest the continued sunrises which hopefully add up to another year at some point.
The only downside to my birthdate is that my husband’s is the very next day. That means that it’s far too easy to agree to the old “If you don’t get me anything, I won’t get you anything” deal. Or maybe, “Let’s just pool the money and take a trip later,” which actually isn’t a bad idea at all, come to think of it, so it’s usually what we do. Later this month, we’re going to toast a July sunset at Sunset Point in Fairhope, and wish one another happy birthday, so I’m pleased. I’ll spring for the key lime tart and call it my birthday cake. I’m perfectly fine with that. And it’s sort of nice to have a birthday buddy.
What’s not so nice is any sort of shared birthday cake so we stopped doing that long ago. I’m not selfish about many things, but I can get bent out of shape with joint names on a birthday cake.
The one thing I miss greatly is spending part of the day with my mom. She always made sure I took sole billing on a birthday cake, as only a mother would. For the past four years, I’ve been without her, and I think I miss her more on my birthday than on any other day. After all, she was with me on my very first birthday and I had hoped she’d be with me for many more than the multitude of years I was given. And yet, when I put that into words, I realize how very special that length of time really was. I had better than I deserved, I’m sure, and more than what many ever get to enjoy.
She was the one person on this earth who always made sure I had a gift to open or at least a card in the mail. And it was always on time. She was my anchor—predictable and ever present. My birthday seemed to be just as important to her as it might have been to me. She always remembered and celebrated just me. No one can do that quite like your mom.
In fact, part of the joy of motherhood is celebrating your children, so I completely understand now. My only hope is that they come to view me as an anchor, as well, and not a dead weight. At this point in their financial neediness, they are much more dead weight than I am, though, and I hope they remember that fact if I ever get old and infirm and we switch positions. Not that I’m keeping track or anything.
Before a few miles separated us and before I reached double digits in age, my mother routinely hosted backyard neighborhood birthday parties where we gathered around the metal-framed picnic table to dish out cake and cherry Kool Aid, always blowing out the exact same number of candles as our age. She was particular about that. With enough kids in attendance, which was usually the case where cherry Kool Aid was involved, we’d finish up the party with a lively game of Drop the Handkerchief. That’s where we all stood in a circle with hands cupped behind our back, while the person who was “It” circled the outside of the group, stealthily dropping a handkerchief in a player’s cupped hands. The player with the handkerchief then chased the dropper around the outside of the circle, hoping to make contact before the circle was made. If that happened, the dropper had to be It for another round. I pitied those kids with non-summer birthdays who had to settle for Musical Chairs at the Royal Avenue Recreation Center on some rainy Saturday afternoon in November.
So, as my birthday approached this year, I was especially mindful of the new decade I was entering and determined to stare it down. Which is why, when my daughter with the new jet ski asked if I wanted to ride with her, I hesitated only slightly before climbing aboard, gripping the handholds, and taking flight—literally, on occasion, as she zipped over the wakes of other boats and swerved in and out of deep and not so deep spots. On the rare moment when I opened my eyes and her ponytail wasn’t whipping me in the face, the scenery was actually beautiful. And when we rounded a curve into a shady corner of the creek, the noticeably cooler air and the midsummer aroma of clear water meeting moist earth and heavy greenery was awe inspiring and well worth the effort to stay upright that long. And I was glad I said yes.
I was also well aware that even if I somehow didn’t stay upright, a jet ski has no propeller so I would most likely not be chopped to pieces, and the life jacket should keep me afloat long enough for rescue. I was prepared and psyched and much younger than the calendar says I am. Or so I think I proved. It’s certainly how I felt.
And that is exactly the point. If we’re lucky and healthy and don’t do stupid things, we’ll most likely continue to have birthdays. Maybe even a lot of birthdays. I read a beauty article recently that suggested that a great smile is the best way to showcase your inner beauty, regardless of age. It’s a free and natural facelift. It might not be much, but it’s certainly an easy habit to continue so I plan to smile a lot this next year.
Even so, I’m sure I’ll continue to do my part to keep Olay in business. And I’ll never turn down an offer to jet ski. Because young is as young does. And that’s what I always want to be.
