In just a few weeks, I will turn the clock over to 60. Six decades. I will have lived through one half-century plus ten years. In just 10 years, I will be 70. And, in 20 years, I will be 80. And, so on. As this milestone approaches, a number of thoughts run through my mind starting with, “STOP telling everyone how old you are!”
I can’t help it, and, these days, I relinquished control of it long before I thought about the impact to my privacy. Facebook not only sticks the birthdays of friends and acquaintances onto my calendar, it displays their new numbers for all to see. Anyone who is my friend on Facebook knows my age and will be alerted in their calendar, "Mary Balistreri is 60 years old today," on April 12.
In my ever-increasing SM savviness and great wile, I left the birthday space empty on LinkedIn. Aha! Take that, you dastardly internet spies. When faced with a chance to get something free from the various establishments I shop, I had no such strategy. Get as much free as possible, my mind screamed at me. So, I am looking forward to all my free stuff on April 12 or during my birthday month this year. Once that is through, I get to enjoy a senior discount from a few places. Some businesses make you wait until you are 65.
But what does it mean? I recently injured one of my thumbs. The right one. The important one when you are right handed. It hits the spacebar for me when I am typing. Apparently, it supports me in most of the cooking, dog walking services, and vacuuming I perform each day, too. Lifting our heavy dinner plates both to serve meals and to wash the dishes after we eat the meals ,I rely on my thumbs to do, well, most of the heavy lifting. I struggle now to do these things without the right thumb, or to let the thumb rest and not do them at all. What a nuisance!
My son Owen has very little empathy for me during this lost use of an appendage. His entire life only one of his thumbs worked. In fact, he manages all of daily life with only one thumb, two fingers, his mouth, and, occasionally, a nudge from his head.
Believe me, I understand my complaint to be a slight one. Nonetheless, it brings to mind my age. Am I now too old to lift my Le Creuset pots and pans? Ages ago, after having to toss out crappy, cheap sets of cookware every few years, we decided to pay the cost and buy my gorgeous, bright red set of Le Creuset. Most of them are Dutch ovens! And, they look beautiful as serving dishes on the table, too!
They are still in great shape 15 or so years later, but they are all made of cast iron or stoneware, so their heftiness should be a consideration for anyone thinking of making the investment. My right digit may have gotten twisted in the handle of a pot or pan when preparing lasagna for Steve's birthday. If I were the blaming sort, this injury would be Steve's fault. (Or the dog's fault - Storm, that is - for being so strong when we play tugging games).
Truth is, it may just be the fact that I am getting older. My fault? The fault of the universe? Why would the universe do this to me? I want to see the manager for the universe about this inconvenience! Yet, it is true that as we age, our bodies also get older. A shocking revelation!
I remember my mom balked at our dishes and cookware each time she babysat Owen. She said they were too heavy. She said she could not lift them at all. She scolded us, a very my mom kind of way to interact. She waved her hands up and down as she yelled in her soft, well-manicured voice, “Now see here! How am I supposed to make Owen his macaroni and cheese?” She scoffed as she wiped a strand of hair off her forehead; the one lock that always fell forward from her cowlick.
She complained about the Le Creuset, our heavy square plates, and the glasses we used, too. They were heavy cut crystal and too large for her hand. What can I say? I live with a gentle giant, my Steve, who is one foot taller than me. Everything made Mom's wrists hurt, she exclaimed. So, we bought a lighter pot for her to use when making Kraft’s mac ‘n cheese, rice, and Campell’s Chicken Noodle soup; three of the 10 things Owen would eat back then.
How old was mom then? How old am I now? Is there overlap to this aversion to heavy lifting? Are my thumb issues premature? If we purchased the stoneware 15 years ago, then my mom was 79 years old. She has me beat by 19 years. There is a difference, though. My arms are fine lifting the pots. It’s just my thumbs that are affected. My mom complained about the weight of the pans, not specifically of thumb injuries. Is that a difference?
Let's explore further. Is my finger trauma age-related?
My mom and I both have tiny hands. At the hospital before she passed away last October, she noted my small hands. “Your hands are small,” she said it in a strange, confident way with no context at all. There was a note of accusation there as well. As if I caused some injury to her through the smallness of my hands. “Really?” I replied and held my hand up to hers. Indeed, my hand was a bit smaller than her hand, which was quite small on its own. She nodded her head triumphantly as if to say, "See?" while she said nothing more on the subject then, or ever.
So, I know my paws are small, smaller even than my mother's. I never had a strong grip. My upper body is quite strong, yet never so my hands. My question now is, are my hands old? Or are they simply following their natural progression because they lack grip strength? Something to ponder indeed.
All of this thinking and my upcoming birthday make me wonder if it matters. Does my age really matter? When it comes to how I feel, I am inclined to say no. I love my life right now more than ever. I am ready for my number to change.
Here are the small things making me happy to celebrate my 60th birthday:
I am celebrating a birthday! I am here. That knowledge alone is miraculous.
My family and friends. My family makes me happy nearly every day. Steve, just this morning, told me how amazing I was and referenced all of the things I have accomplished thus far in life. What a great guy! Owen called just the other day to ask me to take a drive with him, just for fun. It reminded me of how my sister, Ann, who passed away last year, took me for drives at night when we were in our 20s. A call from one of my sisters, Chris and Sue, or my niece, Valery, breathes fresh air into my day. They fill my life with beauty, care, and support. A beautiful dinner out with my red-headed sisters, Eileen and Mary Pat Kelley, or coffee with numerous friends give me reasons to hop out of bed with excitement.
I can choose who to be. I have lived long enough now to understand that I choose who to be every single day. That is a little thing that brings so much joy to my life. I have tried to be many things and many people over the years. Now, I understand those choices and I embrace who I really am. I choose to be me.
I am so excited for my birthday and the adventure the next decade will bring. As for my thumb injury, I am seeing a specialist for that. It does not matter whether it is age related.
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