I don’t feel 58
Today I commemorate 58 years on earth. I don’t feel almost sixty; sIxty sounds — well, old. So does 58, for that matter. I don’t feel that old. if you had to ask me my age I’d say 45 (except for my knees, and then I’d say 80.) I’m old enough to be my students’ grandmother now (if they had two generations of young mothers). I still think I’m old enough to be their mother, and the reality hasn’t sunk in.
I feel like forty-five, only with a lot of memories. I don’t just remember mixtapes, I remember reel-to-reel tapes. I remember a sofa fountain in the drugstore. I remember princess phones in pink and the old bakelite black phones. I remember mainframe computers and DOS and the early days of NCSA Mosaic web browser at the University of Illinois (think the precursor of Netscape Navigator and Firefox.) I remember instamatic cameras and disposable cameras and the first digital cameras. I remember crying when the Beatles broke up. I remember unsafe playground equipment and Tonka trucks and Super Elastic Bubble Plastic. I remember going to the Woolworth’s lunch counter with my grandma and to the Ben Franklin 5 and 10 with my allowance to buy candy. I remember life before Applebee’s.
I don’t miss the past, really. It wasn’t that much simpler, and I like my technological toys.
How I plan to celebrate
It’s simple, really. I plan to play on my computer at the cafe and maybe have an ice cream soda from Kris and Kate’s for lunch. I plan to read my happy birthday greetings on Facebook and have dinner and a rare drink for my birthday.
It’s really not bad being 58.
Words Like Me 