The River's Badge

Sunday, May 19, 2013

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-eight doesn't feel any different from fifty-seven. 

The most difficult birthday for me was the thirtieth. The rest of them have been a piece of cake (ummm, I like white cake with chocolate frosting; thanks.)

I don't know why I had so much trouble with 30.  I guess I finally realized that I had to be grown-up now; which was kind of a crock, because I'd long before become a mom, so I was pretty responsible.  Something about lost youth, maybe.  

I won't lie to you.  There are a lot of crummy things about getting older.  For one, my bad health habits are coming back to bite me in the butt. I cannot eat like I did when I was a kid and still maintain my girlish figure.  My girlish figure hopped a train to Bye-Bye-Ville about ten years ago, and it didn't buy a round-trip ticket.

I have to worry about retirement now.  Or no retirement; whichever the case may be.  I honestly can't see myself still doing what I do when I'm seventy or so; unfortunately for my bank account.  I'm already crabby.  I'm going to be a real pain in the ass if I still have to train people twelve years from now.   

Surprisingly, though, there are some good things about getting older.

I have more patience.  I go with the flow.  Nothing that happens in the world is earth-shattering.  Even the earth-shattering things aren't earth-shattering.  One makes do.  There are very few things I can think of that would cause me to descend into an irreversible funk.  I'm much more even-keeled than I ever was for most of my life.

I'm not very material-minded.  "Things" take up a lot of space.  I don't have any more room for "things"; and I pretty much like the things I have.  I don't feel the need to switch them out for new things.

I finally have the confidence to pursue writing.  Throughout my life, people would say to me, "You're a really good writer"; yet, I hardly ever wrote enough to justify those opinions.  And I wasn't a good writer.  I was a neophyte writer.  I've now finally settled into my own voice; and I don't frankly care if it's not someone's cup of tea.  It is what it is.      

I love a nice spring morning; with the sun bathing my face; taking Josie out for an early-morning walk.  I notice the early birds singing.  I think about them.  What kind of birds are they?   I don't know if I ever even heard the birds when I was younger.

I have let go of a lot of stuff.   I've always been the kind of person who had to pick at a sore.  I couldn't leave it alone.  Any slight; any cross look; depressed me; reminded me that I was a loser at life.  Now I know that people are just people.  I don't have to internalize everything.  People act a certain way for their own reasons; ninety-nine per cent of those reasons have absolutely nothing to do with me.

I guess, overall, I've just grown comfortable with me.  So, fifty-eight isn't so bad.

Oh, one more thing:  If you don't appreciate my fondness for old country music, that's okay.  I still think it rocks.  Sort of like this:









 

 

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