Tomorrow evening marks the fiftieth anniversary of the Beatles’ appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show. The screaming girls had to be admonished by the elder Ed, who just didn’t get our enthusiasm for the Fab Four and all things from that side of the pond. My parents let me stay up and watch – it was, after all, at 8 pm on Sundays on the East Coast and my bedtime on school nights was 9. My father, a DJ on WABC, had actually met them — and for years a four-part collage of their four passport photos autographed by each of them addressed, “To the Ingram Kids” graced the wall of our den. I counted myself blessed that my parents never told us to “turn that crap off.” And the books in my father’s study were always available to me, whatever the topic.
That night was my tenth birthday.
Fast forward another twenty years, save a day. The eve of the end of my twenties – thirty years ago almost to the minute as I type this. I was about three months pregnant with the Penultimate Adult Child and dealing with the intense nausea that meant this one was a keeper. I had been grocery shopping. John was home with the four little ones and this was my time to get some things done and get the heck out of the house. Unfortunately, what I was about to find out was a rather nasty case of the flu was starting to hit me and I threw up in the parking lot of our apartment complex, thinking, “Good bye twenties and long live the thirties!” I spent the next day vomiting pretty much every other minute, causing John to come home from work and take over care of the children. Poor little Danny, only 9 months old, the Only Begotten Son, was to catch my flu and end up in the hospital, a victim of anaphylactoid purpura (and that’s a whole ‘nother story!). Short answer: he survived quite well and thrived in the company of what was to become his five sisters.
Ten years, a lifetime later, I was working at a title company as one of their attorneys (another two babies and law school had intervened) and was happily surprised to see that John had sent me flowers to the office to celebrate my official entry into middle age.
Now, here I am, about to enter what I always viewed as old age, but not feeling a bit old. About 15 years ago, I said to a co-worker who had just turned 60, “you don’t look 60.” Her response was, “This is what 60 looks like.”
I like that.
A colleague of mine who is a couple of years younger than I am, was going out on a first date. I told her about the significance of this weekend to me. Her response, “We will always get old, but I am never going to grow up.” I like that, too, except that I probably grew up a long time ago. At least I hope so.
The kind of person I am, I have been looking at 60 for a while now. My response is pretty much, “so what?” I figure anything past 60 for most people in this world is gravy. So why not enjoy it? I intend to. Tonight, when John wakes up, we’re going to check into his hotel and go out to dinner nearby. Tomorrow morning, we’ll have breakfast and I will go back to my regularly scheduled life: church on Sunday (only this one is two services because the bell choir is playing:)), Sunday dinner with my angels, and preparing for Monday’s CINA docket.
What in blazes do I have to complain about:)?
Right now, I feel incredibly blessed.
From the sublime to …. whatever, on the knitting front, I finally finished that hat for Danny, now over 30 himself, and have been working on a pair of vanilla-ish toe-up socks, and the Little Wave Sweater for the Penultimate Child.
Of course that doesn’t begin to start the whole list:) (even old ladies have their secrets!). Well, the cleaning is done. Time to pack.
God be with you ’til we meet again+
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