When I was 20 and fresh out of college, I never really understood why more mature women would not want to talk about their age or why they would conceal their real age. I couldn’t exactly figure out what the fuss is all about. They’re mere figures. Why be afraid of them?
But how time flew. It has been seventeen years since I had that frame of mind. Now that I’m in my late thirties (yikes!), I’m a little apprehensive of celebrating more birthdays and adding more and more years to my current age of 37. My son is only 2 years and 6 months old now. Doing the math, I’ll be 55 by the time he celebrates his 21st birthday. Boy, I’m old enough to be his grandmother by then.
What are my fears exactly? Anything and everything that has to do with getting old: fading beauty, sagging flesh, wrinkled skin, poor health, disability, dependency. But these things we can’t escape, and so I’ll just console myself with the thought that I’m not the only one who’ll experience these. Misery loves company, so they say.
For the moment, I’ll enjoy what life has to offer, live my life to the fullest, and feel forever young. And here’s my birthday wish: That I live long enough to witness all of my son’s firsts and to see him settled and content with a wonderful family of his own. Oops, lest I forget, today is my birthday!