I celebrated a birthday recently. I didn’t celebrate it very well, mind
you. In fact, I don’t celebrate anything
well anymore. I don’t know how to,
primarily because the only time I stay up past midnight is with sick kids.
The thing is, nobody needs birthday parties
in order to feel older. Our Drivers
License photos do it perfectly well on their own. Besides, you know you’re getting older
because the cops keep getting younger and younger. Soon they’ll be putting little cub scouts in
uniforms and sending them out with toy guns to man the speed traps.
Getting older is particularly discouraging
when you realize what other people have accomplished by the age of 35. Attila the Hun had conquered most of Europe
before he was old enough to vote.
Cleopatra had vamped the entire Mediterranean coastline while tossing
Caesar Salad on the side, and Beethoven managed to write all sorts of world
class symphonies and go deaf before he was my age. Actually, he was dead by the time he was my
age.
The worst thing about growing older is not
the weight you gain, but the dreams you lose.
For instance, I’m having trouble coming to terms with the fact that I
may never become a major Vogue model.
For one thing, we older broads can’t walk in high heels anymore without
toppling over sideways. Something to do
with the weight distribution further up.
For another, we can’t see five inches ahead without our glasses. So unless Vogue wants a model crawling along
the catwalk on her hands and knees, modeling is out.
On the bright side, one of the minor
irritants of aging is you tend to forget things. This has certain advantages. I haven’t weighed myself in weeks. I've already forgotten my age. And any day now, I might forget I am married…
