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…