My mother never has had a problem with her age. She has always announced proudly how old she is and will round up to the next year. She has never dyed her hair either. I have no problem stating my age, but I will hopefully dye my hair for many, many years to come. It just doesn't look good natural, whatever that color would be now?
Yet lately, in regards to my age there have been several indicators that I am not as young as I think I am.
First, it appears that I have entered new hormonal territory. My FSH is in perimenopausal range, so it's official! Waiting to do a saliva test to get the real picture. It doesn't really bother me that in a few years I will not be fertile anymore, but the symptoms do. Symptoms that mixed company and some non-mixed company aren't comfortable with hearing about out loud. But there is jubilation on my part, when I find another woman who understands what I'm talking about it and we can laugh together (and share information!)
A second indicator of my youthfulness fading away was when Donna Summer died in May. The mother of one of Mallory's classmates did not know who she was. O...M...G... I'm still stunned. Not a music person, I guess?
Third, at a recent birthday party, while chatting with another mother of one of Mallory's classmates, it was discovered that we had both attended Silliman High School. I was a graduate in 1986, and she was a graduate in... 2002. Yes, 2002. It's not that 16 years is that big of an age difference, it's that I just think that fellow parents are somewhere in the same ballpark as me. Sixteen is NOT in the ballpark I imagined.
Lastly, I am officially wearing reading glasses because I HAVE to. Not like a few years ago, when my eyeglass fetish was rampant and it was cute. It is simply dramatic how much clearer the iPhone is when I wear those magnifiers. And let me say, it is a whole process to learn how to wear them: how far down the nose they should go, the tilt of the head to look at things further away, putting them on, taking them off, keeping them smudge free, and keeping them in handy places. It's a lot of work.
But, back to Donna Summer. I was kinda sad for this mom who never knew the feeling of getting out there and dancing that "last dance." I'm sure there had to be a song for her age bracket but come on, how can you beat The Queen of Disco? I still have a distinct mental picture of myself either at the Sillman gym or one of the church halls, maybe around seventh, eighth grade? Hoping, oh so hoping, to get asked to dance that last song of the night. And I remember dancing my heart out, gyrating, sweating, smiling and enjoying every moment of it, and not wanting it to end.
Well, I don't wait to get asked to dance anymore. We have our own dance parties and last night, Riley and I turned on the Sweet Home Alabama song and then the Queen. I motioned for George and Mallory to join us. The whole family moved in their own peculiar ways. Mallory tries to get Annie the dog to dance. I dance and keep the cats away from attacking Annie who I don't think is digging on Donna.
Sweet, sweet memories of my youth, and making new ones together with my family.
Although I may not be as young as I think I am, I will always enjoy disco and it is mattering less and less whether those around me understand that or not. I find great joy and I amuse myself!! That is a sure sign of aging, right? But I do know when you find joy rising, grab ahold of it and enjoy the ride.
(The song was released in 1978. I was ten years old. Donna Summer, may she rest in peace, was still belting it out effortlessly in this tribute to David Foster in 2011. )