Once I Was Seven Years Old; Essay on Sixty

Gotta change those lyrics to “Now I am sixty years old.”

My dad got seventy-one, and might have gotten more if a lifetime of cigarettes hadn’t changed the odds of developing lung cancer. My mother got seventy-eight, but a lifetime of ciggies didn’t help with the final decade spent with dementia, arrhythmia and emphysema (anyone’s guess which one actually was guilty of striking the final blow). With my history, I try to spend more time in the present than anticipating future possibilities.

I avoid remembering large periods of my life. High school in particular is a self-imposed blackout with a few exceptions. Even the highlights are bittersweet. I made National Merit Finalist and pissed off most of my friends who studied for the SAT’s (I did not) and did not qualify. My clique of close friends mostly went their separate ways from me while maintaining contact with each other; I never understood that, but then the kid last picked in gym class never quite understands why they’ve been passed over. As an adult, I spent my twenties and thirties in a good marriage while repressing who I was in order to be who my first husband believed I should be. My fault, not his. There are wonderful memories though; winning a national poetry contest in sixth grade ( and then spending the next five years actually believing that “poet” was a viable occupation). Being taken on a second date in college that, when the gentleman found out I had never been in an airplane plans were immediately changed and I was treated to an hour-long flight in a Piper Cub touring eastern PA and NJ. Graduating vet school at age 41, after spending four gravel-scrabble years of thinking I was never going to survive (technically, I almost didn’t, but that wasn’t vet school’s fault). Anyhow, I suspect the key to a happy life is remembering the right moments, and letting go of the ones that do nothing to improve your current lot in life.

Children. Never had ’em, never should have had ’em, never once regretted it (even though a great aunt told me when I was twelve that I’d “grow out of that”). I suspect this is partly because I really suck at patience with creatures that can’t be left alone at home with a bowl of water and another bowl of kibble. I cannot see me happily sitting through Suzie’s second grade world premier of “The Little Snowflake that Would Not Fall to Earth”. I know that I’m selfish. Time raising children would have been time taken away from raising me. Probably the same reason I like cats far better than dogs. Dogs are too needy. Cats demand only that you feed them and clean the litter box. Besides, if you don’t like your cat then you find a good home for it with someone who can give it the love it deserves. If you don’t like your kid, it’s a crime against nature. I never was willing to risk committing a felony against Mother Nature.

As for the world being cold … it is neither warm nor cold. It’s what you choose to make of it. I’ve absolutely learned that the only warmth in life is the warmth you get from doing your best so that you can feel good about yourself. It isn’t my mission to make every squirrel in the park like me by feeding them peanuts. It’s more my mission to feel good about feeding them peanuts so they can be squirrels and spend their time ignoring me and being cute. Things that make me feel warm are acquiring knowledge, imparting knowledge, having a job where I know I’m making a difference (even if the only people who truly understand are the people I work with), sitting at a table for one in a restaurant and enjoying the company, and having close friends who understand this about me (mostly because they feel the same way). Yes, other people can make you feel warm and fuzzy and good about yourself, but that doesn’t happen unless you do the same for them.

So there’s a few thoughts on sixty from somebody who has only spent one day in the position.

The Professor brought me to the verge of tears last night by giving me something I’ve wanted for a long time but could never justify purchasing for myself; a Swarovski figurine of two Blue Jays. I haven’t shelled out to pay for web storage for a long time now, so I can’t post a picture, but you can see them at Swarovski Blue Jays.