I am old.
Not so old that I dodder, but old enough that injuries don’t heal as fast anymore. I’m old enough to remember a world without cable TV, but not old enough to remember dinosaurs. (Ha! That’s a a bad old joke.) Okay, not old enough to remember communicating via telegram but old enough to have received telegrams on my wedding day. Old enough to have gray hair, but not old enough to completely let go about caring that it makes me look old. I’m old enough to see the years whizz by, but young enough to stop and notice details.
People will say that I am middle aged. Not unless I live to be 120. I’m old enough to play in senior volleyball events across the country, but not so old that I can’t pound the ball. Seriously. I think I’d surprise you. I’m old enough to know my knees hurt, but not so old that I want to take up golf instead. Besides, my retirement sport plans to be birdwatching. I’m old enough to have lost one parent, but he died when I was young. The other one is still going strong.
I’m young enough to learn new things. I’m a year and a half into Taekwondo (Orange belt, thank you very much), and I just received my Open Diver Certification this last weekend (for the second time–long story).
But I’m old enough to have failed in my career choice, despite some hopeful and fitful starts, and young enough to have it hurt like hell. And now I fear I’ve reached a point where no one will take my desire to try again seriously. And I want to try again.
So I figure I have about thirty years left in me. What do I want to do with those years? I have family members to take care of, my own health to look after, and a couple of dogs I like. I am old enough to be sensible, but young enough to dream.
Those dreams are still as big as when I was twenty. And I remember twenty. And I feel twenty. So… thirty years. Here I go again.
Books I’m reading now:
The Age of Wonder: The Romantic Generation and the Discovery of the Beauty and Terror of Science by Richard Holmes
Battlemage by Peter Flannery