On this beautiful morning, I am sitting in front of my electric heater, reflecting on 60 years of life. My birthday was on Wednesday, and I really didn’t think much of it except to be thankful that I could get out of the bed and get to work. I did get to my hairdresser in the afternoon to get a new “do.”
When I was a child, 60 was such a long way off that I never considered the idea of making it to 60. I’m not sure my grandparents were even 60 when I was born. It was a foreign concept.
Around my teenage years, I was just hoping that if/when I turned 60 my children would move the hospital bed into the living room, so I could see what was happening. Sixty was OLD. The preacher was 60, and the ladies at church were old, and I was never going to be that old!
By the end of my 20s, early 30s, my brain was developed to a point that I realized that people lived to 60 and beyond, and I knew some of them, and they were still active. Heck, some of them even still played golf and tennis!
At the end of 30 and the beginning of 40, with a herd of kids in tow, there were days I longed for 60 because I planned on them (the kids) all being gone. If I could just survive until that last one got out of high school, I could eat breakfast out on the porch with no spills, cook, clean, and pick-up for only two, and I definitely would NOT have to wait in car lanes at multiple schools. One can only dream.
In my 50s, when my sister died about the same time as some close friends, I knew that I couldn’t count on 60 but had to be thankful for each day. I started working on those pesky issues of pride and contentment. I needed less pride and more contentment thrown together with huge doses of grace, and I might make it to 60.
And now here I am — 60 years old.
My first thought is that I have been blessed and am thankful to have a great husband, a herd of great kids, many friends, a good job, beautiful grandchildren, some laying hens, and a garage full of “saved” fabric, fruit jars, and well, more boxes of fabric.
Not all the fabric is my fault though. When my grandma died, I got her fabric stash. I had to. They were going to throw it away. There might be a few scraps in the 18 boxes that I can actually use someday. I won’t know until someday gets here. I got some more when my other grandmother died. A close friend at church passed on, and I got her jars. Fabric and jars. The twin blessings of life!
My second thought is that I am 6041! Yikes! I still have so much I want to do. Hubs has been hanging in there for 41 years with me, we still have kids at home, and I still get up early to put the LAST, LAST, LAST one on the bus. I am not as quick as I once was, but I did shingle a roof a few weekends ago. I took Aleve for the rest of the week, but we got the job done. I am more tolerant of things than I used to be — just ask my older children. They have informed me that the youngest ones are horribly spoiled and get everything they want.
I have been trying out riskier behavior lately. I think I have been conservative enough, and 60 is the time to finally let go. Just last weekend, I walked out on the deck in my socks! No shoes. Just socks! My kids would gasp. I do not care if the socks wear out. One night, I let the youngest eat his supper in front of the TV, so hubs and I could have a few minutes ALONE at the table. I am thinking of purchasing him a brand-new TV for his room, so I never have to listen to Fortnite again! We still operate with one TV in the house, but I am thinking that it is time to add another. The older kids will have a fit! I have quit coloring my hair, so now I am totally silver, and I do not CARE a whit. I wear makeup only on the days I want to, and I am thinking about trying out my hubby’s secret for hair care. Don’t fix it; just wear a hat!
Sixty should be fun with my new, riskier attitude and my attention to more grace and contentment. My next step is to fake sick and call in to work! See what hubs thinks about that!