When I was younger, it mystified me that people wouldn’t tell you how old they really were, or that they would lie about their age. I swore that would never be me. Nope. I’d have no trouble at all telling people how old I was.
I would rather eat glass than announce on this blog how old I am turning today.
I’m at the stage where I try to do something different each year. It’s not exactly to prove I’m not old–I’m not. On Saturday, Sarah and Larry G. rented a moonwalk for Nate’s seventh birthday, and people who are too old do not go into the moonwalk, bounce with the kids, fling them around, get attacked by two four-year-olds, and play dead when told they are killed. (And for the record, those bouncy things are an amazing workout. I was exhausted by the end of the afternoon.)
People who are too old don’t go rock climbing on their birthday.
It isn’t that I’m worried that I’m too old. It’s that I’m trying to keep thinking young. But I don’t have to try too hard. My brother Dave and I can still talk Buh-Huh language, which we invented when we were teenagers (to drive our cousins crazy). Both my brothers and I can revert back to childhood often enough that my sister-in-law has adopted an attitude of aggrieved indifference when we sink backwards, and just rolls her eyes and walks away. And my fourth graders will tell you that I’m not old at all, as they watched me try to get a bouncy ball to come back to me on one bounce on Sunday before class started. (That, and I made them all ask for snack in Scooby voice and phrase, since the snack was Scooby graham crackers shaped like dog bones.)
But damn, I do not want to see my actual age in years. Because that makes me think I’m old.
However, I am not yet at the age where my father used to declare, “A lot of people my age are already dead.” Far from it. So, like, phew.
Sarah and the twins are meeting me for lunch today. And I have an ice cream cake for my class, because my entire department is out of town on a conference today, and I am going to be the only one on the north side of the building, except for the Admin in the northwest corner.
Blogging will be heavy today, I think.
I need to think of something different to do. Two years from now, I will be having my bat mitzvah. I need something special this year, though. Suggestions welcome.
After having a life-threatening illness, all I can say is regardless of what the number is, having a birthday beats the alternative…
My mother is of the generation that “stops having birthdays” and told me that she’s holding at 79 and isn’t going to get any older. I don’t buy that; the only way to be young forever is to die.
Nothing wrong with age; age means experience and hopefully wisdom.
Comment by The Doctor — 11/15/2005 @ 8:50 am
And happy birthday, by the way…
Comment by The Doctor — 11/15/2005 @ 8:51 am
Is there something that you’ve always wanted to do, or some out-of-the-way skill you’ve always wanted to learn?
Happy birthday, Meryl!
Comment by Rahel — 11/15/2005 @ 10:24 am
Some people think birthdays are a load of crap.
Not me; I prefer ‘em to the old Dirt Nap.
Meryl, when you get to be my age, you can start griping about your age. But I don’t gripe, ’cause the alternative is worse.
Bis hundert-tzvantzik yur mit gezint un glik. The ol’ Meah v’ Esrim.
May your next trip around the Sun be a sweet one.
Comment by Elisson — 11/15/2005 @ 11:05 am
Rahel, most of those things are of the unprintable variety.
And anyway, Sean Connery is married. And in another country. And, well, a bit too old now.
I used to want to go white-water rafting down the Colorado River, but, uh, I don’t anymore.
Hey. I know. I’ll work on my book when I get home tonight.
Comment by Meryl Yourish — 11/15/2005 @ 11:52 am
Happy birthday and many returns Meryl.
I’m not afraid to announce my age. I’m 39. Like Jack Benny, I’ve been 39 for some time.
Comment by Michael Lonie — 11/15/2005 @ 3:46 pm
So…. what kind of grass would you prefer?
Comment by Rajan Rishyakaran — 11/15/2005 @ 10:42 pm
Congratulations!
In the upcoming year, may your writing be prolific.
May you obtain a great job with excellent benefits.
And may it be that cats no longer get hairballs.
Comment by Tziporah — 11/16/2005 @ 12:23 am
Mazal tov! Bis hundert und zwanzig.
Don’t be coy about your age. When my m-i-l said that she did not want a 70th birthday party, I told her that I would put up a sign saying “Happy 80th.”
I say that you are probably no older than 45.
Mazal tov again.
chsw
Comment by chsw10605 — 11/16/2005 @ 10:26 am