It happened really fast.
One day I was 20, an idealistic college student in love with love. Then I was 23, welcoming my daughter Terri into the world; then I was 30, when Erica joined and completed our family.
Then I was 31, mourning the death of my young mother.
The next I was 47, marrying again...the right guy that time.
Then I was 50, then 60...then 70. Life's daily events, tragedies, belly laughs, highs and lows going on at a lightning pace all around me.
The 20-year-old, who'd set out to conquer the world only to be sidetracked by poor judgment, lack of preparation and total immaturity has never been far away. She lurks in the back of my consciousness, applauding when I achieve something worthwhile and chiding when she manages to pop up and do something stupid or thoughtless.
Still, though, she's perpetually 20...until I look in the mirror
Staring back at me is an older woman (I refuse to say old lady) with silver streaks in her hair, deep wrinkles around her mouth and eyes and dark spots from years of sun worship before we knew better.
And now the number that is tacked onto that face is 80. Somehow, some way, I turned 80 years old last week and it happened when I wasn't even looking or preparing for it.
In retrospect, when anyone asks me about my feelings at 80, I can only say how blessed I am. By accident of birth, I live in what is, most of the time, the greatest country on earth. I have children and grandchildren I love and scores of friends. I don't live in Afghanistan or Libya where I fear for my life and the lives of my family. I eat good food without questioning how to pay for it or whether it's going to last for days or weeks until the next meal. My home is my refuge and my sanctuary. I don't wander deserts or mountains or dry, barren plains searching for shelter from weather or enemies. I consult a variety of physicians when necessary so my life can be preserved without suffering.
Accident of birth. That's really what has given me all those 80 years. Anywhere else, I might have been long dead or so impoverished I wished I were.
But neither of those things happened to me. I simply aged, in relatively good health with abundant happiness, until I was 80, a natural progression of one year after another, blessing heaped upon blessing.
The older I've become, the less of the 20-year-old I recognize. She didn't put as much value on kindness as this older version does. She didn't take quite as much time weighing how her words might affect others as this older version does. She didn't recognize the fragility of the planet on which we live as does the older version and she didn't think about growing old. She hid behind the curtain of youth, self-absorbed and shallow. This older version has learned a lot in the eight decades I've lived. There are many, many regrets to acknowledge, most of which cannot be relived in a better way. There are many mistakes in judgment, many failures to greet events with the thankfulness they deserved.
But at 80, it really doesn't pay to look too far back. There are limited days ahead and each has its own value. The friends still traveling the journey with me, the family making its own way in the world: the daughter soon to be happily married, the daughter overseeing the educational welfare of the children in her community, the grandkids traversing college years and careers ahead, the husband who will one day decide to retire and put up with even more time with me. Each day is a gift with all of them.
Eighty really beats the alternative and is rich and happy.
