The other day, my manicurest Jimmy (yes, I totally have a very young Vietnamese boy named Jimmy who does my nails every 2 weeks and aspires to work in a factory), laughed and told me, “You’re a funny old lady” when I was searching for my purse that I had allegedly just put on the chair beside me only moments before. Or so the story goes.
I was delighted.
I was tickled because that means I have reached that magical period of my life when I can roll around on the floor with my grandkids and not worry about any of us getting dirty.
I can eat hot dogs for breakfast if I want because I’m no longer worried about making sure my little ones get the complete RDA of every vitamin and micronutrient. But they have to be Nathan’s. Or Hebrew National. Yum!
I can wear leopard sneaker wedges if I fancy them because I paid for the dang things, and because my husband thinks I’m beautiful if I wear a gunny sack. Because he’s funny and old too.
If I pee my pants laughing, my overriding thought is not to die of embarrassment, but to be grateful for such a moment of pure joy.
If I need to stay at work late because I have a patient who’s sad, or confused, or vulnerable, I can do so, and my husband understands, because we’ve both lived long enough to have felt that way ourselves.
If I’m really sad about something, I’ve lived through enough sadness to have faith that I will eventually come out on the other side, and I know that tears can be my strength.
I have friends that will come over if I need them and never raise an eyebrow that my bathroom isn’t clean. And friends that understand even if we don’t get together for months.
Never fear getting older. I promise. I PROMISE. It just keeps getting better.