29 and Holding?

Let’s get right to the nitty gritty. I’m 40 – how old are you? Oh, really? Now, how about the truth? What is it with people and age? Young people want to be older, older people want to be younger. We become legal, birthdays become outlawed. Can someone clarify this for me? It’s like someone flips off the switch on the flashing “Happy Birthday” sign! Where’s the fun in THAT? My husband says that I don’t have a problem with my age because I don’t look my age. Well, bless his heart for saying so but that’s not the reason. The way I see it, I’ve clocked a lot of difficult miles getting this far and I’m proud of every one of them. Sure, I’d love to still feel the thrill of being a 20-something – or even a 30-something, for that matter – but I’m firmly wedged into the luge with the “BIG 4-0” on the side, barrelling down the run to 41. OK, so the ride isn’t nearly as exhilarating as it must be for those racers – but leave it to me to pick a metaphor that allows me to be lying down. One of my favorite comedians, George Carlin, does a routine about age and points out how, when we’re young, we age in “halves.” We proudly say “I’m 4½!!!!” We can’t wait to get to the next year. I can unequivocally state that I am NOT 40½. Just 40 is fine, thanks. I draw the line at aging in fractions. When I get to my next birthday, tack on another whole number and give me cake. I don’t NEED cake, by any stretch of the imagination, but I figure I’ve made it through another year, relatively unscathed, so I’ve EARNED cake. Oh – and flip on that flashing “Happy Birthday” sign while you’re at it. So, we went out for dinner the other night. Both of our daughters took the time to dress nicely, each wearing a sundress and sandals. I did their hair and they looked lovely. I could tell they felt really good – and quite grown up – going to the restaurant for a late meal. We got there and the hostess showed us to our table. As we sat down, she promptly placed a puzzle booklet and packet of crayons in front of my younger daughter. I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. She’ll be 12 in two short months. She doesn’t order from the Children’s Menu. She doesn’t need a booster seat to reach the table. She entertains US at dinner – we don’t need to amuse HER. I think I caught myself actually praying that she wouldn’t toss the items right back at the hostess with a “PUH-LEASE!” I shouldn’t have worried. She accepted them graciously, looked at me and said, “You know, Mom, I don’t usually get this stuff anymore but I can probably find something I can do while I’m waiting for my food.” Whew! Then, at the end of the evening, doesn’t the waiter come over and plunk what looked like a pirate’s chest on the table. It was full of little toys! Thinking my luck was running out, I couldn’t help but wonder why he thought she’d want one of those plastic trinkets. He had just cleared away her plate… from her seafood platter… which was exactly the same meal I had eaten… and HER plate was CLEAN. She looked at me, I looked at her… and she opened the box. Out tumbled goofy sunglasses, ball and string games… nothing even close to appropriate for her. Then she saw it. A frog. That squeaks. Considering the other options, she quietly said, “I always did like frogs – and this one looks pretty realistic.” He rode home on her lap in the back seat. I never asked if it bothered her to be taken for younger than her real age. I just thanked my lucky stars that she has manners. She doesn’t realize it yet but, as she inches through those oh-so-grown-up teenage years, she’s got an ace in the hole. Maybe someday down the road, when she’s around 40, people will tell her that she “doesn’t look a day over 32.” She can thank her lucky stars she has good genes.