Both of my grandmothers always had white hair. They both always wore sensible shoes. They both always smelled like soft, spring flowers and sat quietly in straight backed chairs. A generation later, when my mother (who had bleached hair and wore high heels and lots of make-up) came to visit, the neighborhood kids didn’t believe my children when they said that, yes, she was their grandmother. Now, I am a raucous, adventurous granny. I think, as a subset of parents, we grandmothers just keep getting younger.
I work out five days a week. Got to keep in shape to chase, hoist and cuddle those giggling, squirmy babies. I try (usually) to eat a moderate, healthy diet. Can’t have sugar swings and fall asleep on the couch when it’s time to go to the park. My grandchildren hardly ever see me in dressy clothes. What fun would it be if I couldn’t color and build and roll around on the floor with them?
This month I turn 65. In anticipation of that momentous occasion, I attended a Medicare seminar. The room was filled with “old people.” I felt out-of-place (though I suspect that I actually fit right in). Sixty-five used to be so old. I’m not old! I’m a grandmother and that requires energy galore.
Thank you, James and Dellie and Leo and Kate for the 65th birthday present of youth and delight!