Older, and okay with that

Rising up above it all
Rising up above it all

I’m celebrating another birthday today.

Reached for the calculator sitting on my desk to figure out my age, for I honestly and truly wasn’t sure how old I am. My uncertainty wasn’t due to any female vanity, that stereotyping of womanly opinions we’re often dumped into recognition buckets with (not that I deny having some of that angst about aging), nor was it forgetfulness. Plain and simple, my actual age was something that I lost track of. Isn’t that strange, how you can lose track of the one measurement you can claim as your own? And it’s not just today; my age is something I fail to know all the time. I rely instead, on knowing with definite certainty the year I was born. Perhaps it’s because of pure repetition; that date never changes, and it never will. It will stay with me forever, as forever as I have a forever to think about. The ensuing years have been more fleeting; I’ve been able to leave them behind unless they get connected to an equally momentous event, like the years my children were born.

My true age was a good revelation today, for I really thought I was already another year older. How’s that for a great gift, a whole extra year? Now to fill it up…