Some time ago, a friend of mine made a comment to me. It was a beautiful Sunday and I was fulfilling my usual Sunday morning routine of cutting out coupons from the newspaper. My friend, Leo, called to “check in” with me as usual on this day. “What you up to?” he asked through nibbles of Atkins peanut butter cups. “Just cutting out coupons,” I responded flatly. Then came the comment…”Sometimes I think you’re just in a hurry to get old,” he said. I could picture him sitting on his couch surrounded by his dogs, patting each one on the head with approval. That’s when it hit me, I AM in a hurry to get old. Nothing says comfort to me like a cat in my lap while wearing a thick pair of warm socks.
A few months ago, my husband and I attended a meeting at a senior citizen center. As we exited our meeting and stepped into the main area, I peaked into the dance hall. I watched with envy as adorable couples held each other close and shuffled to the brassy tones of the live jazz band. Each pair of lovers looked content, as if they were satisfied with life.
I can’t seem to help it. I love watching “feel good” movies, baking bread, researching ancestors, wearing clothes for comfort instead of style, playing card games, going to bed early in the winter, putting a jigsaw puzzle together, writing to loved ones on paper and relaxing in lawn chairs. I drink tea each morning, read cookbooks and get bent out of shape when I don’t have Kleenex in my car.
On my 2nd, 29th Birthday last month (wink wink), I shared my feelings with my husband. His response? “I wouldn’t be in a hurry to get old if I was you,” he said bluntly. “Oh? Why not?” I asked. His reply was to the point and the conversation came to a total end; “What are you going to live off of?” Oh yeah, I hadn’t thought that far. So until then, I’ll just keep enjoying fast food napkins in my glove compartment instead of Kleenex in my back window.
