Every year on my birthday I reverse the numbers of my age, and depending on the digits, either imagine what it will be like to be the future age or remember what I was like when I was the younger age. For example, 24 was 42, and 42 was 24. It’s fun. I wondered at certain ages whether the “older me” would still be wearing jeans. At other ages I recalled my first kiss, first date, and first dog. Luckily, at 13 I wouldn’t have imagined my father’s death when I turned 31. At 25, I imagined being married to my husband at 52, and at 52 I still was. At 37, as I held my baby girl I wondered if at 73 If I would be holding a grandchild.
Last year I couldn’t play the game. At 55, the number was the number. It’s karma I told myself. It’s the year that I have to be me, the year that my baby would go off to college, the year that my husband and I would return to just the two of us again. The year I would finish my novel and let my writing go public. I worked on stillness and patience and learned to be a yoga teacher. I cleaned out my closets and threw away the clothes that at 54 I remembered wearing at 45 and thought well maybe next year I’ll fit into them again.
I looked in the mirror at 55 and saw that the scar from my thyroid surgery was fading, that I had recovered from the cancer that invaded my body at 53 and would never have been on my radar at 35, when all I could think of was getting pregnant. So at 56 I am enjoying the prospect of social security at 65 while doing downward dog.