After 54 days of this blogging business
(yes, only 6 days left to 60!), I’ve got a confession that might surprise you.
You ready? Here goes: I don’t have what you’d call a straight-forward and
unambiguous relationship with the truth.
No, I really am turning 60 and not
59 or 39. And yes, I really did break my
wrist and get those flat tires and throw away my husband’s favorite Adirondack
twig chair and dispose of a dead mouse. Every word of every post I’ve written has been
the truth. And yet, in a sense, they’ve also been based on a lie. Because as much
as I’ve been blogging and obsessing about turning 60, I really fine with it.
I’m sorry, but did you think I was, maybe,
just a tad depressed? Perhaps a little sad about these wrinkles? Distressed
that I’m 10 years closer to 80 than 30?
Well, I hate to disillusion you, but
I’m really not upset at all.
As I write this, a dear friend is
dying, a few months shy of her 60th birthday. I just heard of the untimely death of a father
of young children at my school. And I
saw a notice in my school inbox about a Mishnah study session in memory of a
second young father who died over the summer.
These three tragedies remind me of
my own mother, who died 43 years ago. She was 45, which at the time didn’t seem
all that young to me. At my sederim last
week, I realized mom would have been closer in age to her 33-year-old grandson
than her children. There were so many of
us she never lived to meet – a son- and daughter-in-law, six grandchildren, and
a great-grandson. I wasn’t thinking so much of missing her – though even now, there
is that, too – but of all the years and simchas
and joys she missed out on.
All of which is why in spite of my
blog – or maybe because of it – I’ve come to realize that 60 is nothing to
bemoan, but a gift that I intend to enjoy.
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