At 75

I didn't know what seventy-five would look like, or how it would feel, or how it would sound. I didn't know what kind of food would taste good, where I would want to go, or what I would want to do. I didn't know if I'd still be here or if I would want to be.

I didn't expect time to go so fast, no matter how often I was warned, or that my feet would grow or my hands get knobby and crooked and my hearing . . . I can't even say anything about hearing. I think I left it somewhere.

Speaking of memories--I was, wasn't I?--they have become more and more precious. But different. Ones from childhood that used to be clear are foggy now, like filtered photographs. Ones from last week are mostly just gone, until someone reminds me and I say oh, yeah, I remember until the next time. I remember all of my grandkids' birthdays, but not how old they are. I find it hard to believe that if they are their age, their parents must be ... but no, that's how old I am. Isn't it?

But, no, I am 75.

I remember my Aunt Gladys's stories. She never married, never drank or smoked, but sometimes she and friends would have lunch at the pool hall. She traveled everywhere with friends until there were none of them left to travel with. I still can't see a skunk without thinking a pussycat with fluid drive, because that was one of the stories she told most often. I'd love to hear them one more time.

Now it's me telling the same stories over and over, prefacing them with Have I already told you this? A couple of weeks ago a friend said that even if I had, she wouldn't remember it anyway. We laughed together, as friends most blessedly do, and even though we laugh at different things now than we did in high school, the point is that we're still laughing.

Many Amish communities have a tradition called rumspringa, wherein their youth take some time to decide about things, sometimes to see what's on the other side of the cultural fence. At the end of that time, they decide with open hearts whether they will be baptized into their faith or not.

Being 75, and other years all around it, is when we have rumspringa in reverse. We do what we want, we try to catch up on things we've missed. Our homes look like old people live there because we do.

Some of us are selfish with it. We block aisles, we take way too long deciding what brand of catsup we want today, we try to decide if we really want that much hamburger even if the price is better. I swear half of us don't know what turn signals are for, we complain about everyone who is younger than we are, and we think our age entitles us to be rude whenever we like.

It doesn't.

We don't especially want to stand up at concerts because our hips hurt and we're cranky because it's so loud, so we go to ones where boomers are accepted, liked, and ... well, accepted is good enough, I guess.

I knew I would always miss people I've lost, and I do. I knew my memory would be faulty and it is. I knew all the inner and outer workings we come with would begin to wear out and they have.

I didn't know how much I would love sunrises and sunsets and trees, that I would cherish familyship and friendship as much as I do, that there would be so many things to laugh about every day, that there was so much kindness in the world if you just look for it. I didn't know how sustaining faith would be.

There are a lot of things I know that I didn't want to, as well, but I'm not going there today. Just because I'm 75 doesn't mean I have to annoy people in the long term, just in short bursts.

Have a great week. Be nice to somebody.