I can’t possibly be this old and yet I am.
Resisting the truth doesn’t make me any more comfortable in my ever more freckled skin. So for the second year in a row, I’m greeting my age and giving it a great big hug.
I found that last year’s opening to this is 57 felt like a mantra of sorts so you will hear echoes there, as well as with the closing.
One new photo in the slideshow this year—2014. More new photos next year!
Continued appreciation to Lindsey Mead for the inspiration.
This is fifty-eight.
58 is more freedom still than I had last year at 57, probably because I’m becoming more comfortable with exercising it and the people around me are becoming more comfortable with my exercise of it. These days, each month I still spend a week where I want to live—in Provincetown, Massachusetts, on the very tip of Cape Cod, as far as you can go without falling into the sea.
58 is old—the number that is—but I don’t feel old. I feel just the same.
58 is not old—I’m not yet in my 60’s or 70’s or 80’s or 90’s. I’m not yet 100.
58 is having lived 21,184 days. Which doesn’t seem like so many.
58 is having not as many days as I have lived still to live.
58 is, as my husband says, one day older than I was yesterday.
58 is wondering why the preoccupation with freedom.
58 is wondering if the resistance to being old (I mean older) will ever give way to something else.
58 is taking a risk on a new haircut!
58 is not yet having used age as a reason I can’t do something.
58 is having had a moment on New Year’s Eve when I didn’t want the ball to drop and doing something about it.
58 is being 90 days into a practice of articulating one truth a day about myself and posting it here—acknowledging all the different strands that swirl together into me.
58 is running when I want to.
58 is driving a black Prius instead of the convertible I always thought I wanted.
58 is 4 adult children—all off on their own—plus a son-in-law and a daughter-in-law. And liking them ALL. I was 23 when my first child was born. I was 55 when the last one left for college. You do the math.
58 is being a grandmother to three little ones with another one on the way! BUT we are not your mothers’ grandmothers. We do not stay home in house dresses. We are Joni Mitchell.
58 is doing THIS:
58 is not holding so tightly to one dream.
58 is taking blood pressure medicine, damn it.
58 is being a Platinum Medallion Flyer.
58 is feeling happier.
58 is winter having displaced fall as my favorite season.
58 is wearing a Fitbit and often getting 10,000 steps or more.
58 is 30 years of marriage and still liking each other.
58 is being the same age as the very cool Frances McDormand.
58 is going through the family photos, one by one, and remembering the small moments, the fun it was.
58 is hearing my own voice.
58 is being confident about my writing.
58 is 5 decades, almost 6.
58 is gratitude for each of those days in each of those years.
58 is being excited about the year ahead and the rest of the journey…which belongs to me.
She sees that she has before her an important task: to understand that all the things that happened in her life happened to her. That she is the same person who was born, was a child, a girl, a young woman, and now she is old. That there is some line running through her body like a wick.
–Mary Gordon, The Rest of Life