Today is my birthday. I’ll have to admit, people are beginning to roll their eyes when I say, “Yep, I’m 39. Ha.. ha…”
I remember the long ago days when I used to proudly tally up my age in fractions. (“I’m 8 and three-quarters!”) Now I don’t add on one day of the extra year until 3:36 a.m. on August 2, the moment of my actual birth. Pacific daylight savings time.
I have this great photo of my two grandmas and little six-month-old me. Grandma Marshall is bouncing me on her knee and Grandma Young is dangling a rattle in front of my starry eyes. Both these old ladies have their hair up in buns, aprons over their old-lady dresses, stockings rolled to their knees. A couple of years ago, I asked my mom, “How old are my grandmas here?” She said, “Let’s see… Grandma Marshall must be fifty and Grandma Young was forty-five.”
I’m pleased to say, I’m having trouble remembering my age. Perhaps that’s because I so strongly believe in “real age.” You know, you take an online survey and get back a computer generated health-lifestyle-body age guesstimate. Much more accurate, I believe. I’ll admit to personal bonuses: my great-grandpa lived to be 100 and four of his children lived well past 90 (two daughters were over 100 when they left this life). My grandfather on the other side lived well into his 90s, and my own dad is going strong at 91. Now, since I’m only 39, Ha… Ha…, that gives me many more good years to live and love and write.
My prayer for today: Teach me to number my days well, that I may gain a wise heart. (Psalm 90:12)
“Age is something that doesn’t matter, unless you are a cheese.”