Birthdays are funny things. The older I get, the less it really matters how old I am getting, I tell myself. Of course, I am vain enough to look closely in the mirror: are those laugh lines around my eyes, or crow’s feet? Do I need to go to the hairdresser, or are those sparkly things in my brown hair not that noticeable yet? And my neck … not much I can do there except moisturize, moisturize, moisturize. Move along, Jane.
I’m 52. Some days I feel it, but not on my birthday. I have a sweet life, not a perfectly happy one, and not a stress-free one either, but it’s good. There are things about it I need to tend, I know, but on my birthday none of that matters. So this past Saturday I showered, coiffed, moisturized, and went to work with a little smile on my face and a bigger one in my heart.
I smiled my way through half the day, and then took my coworkers’ birthday wishes with me out the door and to my car, and home. Still smiling, I went off to Sag Harbor, to spend the rest of the day with the “Fab-lious” R’s, their mother Judy, and the rest of the crew.
There was, indeed, chocolate cake. Delicious! And a wonderful dinner, and hours and hours of laughter and conversation, and a little running around on the rocky shore at Long Beach in the late afternoon. I came home late, and tired, but still smiling.
Yes, those must be laugh lines, and the sparkles aren’t too obvious in the sunshine by the water, and my neck … well … two out of three.
I’ll be back next Tuesday. Maybe by then I’ll have figured out what I want to knit with that Lime over Mint yarn, too.
Not Plain Jane 