There are patches of blue showing through the eternal overcastness of the sky but I’m not yet prepared to acknowledge that Spring is here. She’s done this to us before.
At least it’s not raining … all the little Widder-seedlings are just a’soakin’ up those rays…
In one hundred and sixty five days from today, (18th April) I’ll be 60 years old.
Which isn’t as startling a concept as I thought it’d be … although I have been pondering the concept of late, especially as I moaned and groaned through the aftershocks of a migraine at 3 O-Clock this morning, hence this post.
60 was an age that seemed impossible to achieve when I was twenty … far too scary when I was thirty … a deadline with a death-knell attached to it when I was forty … ‘meh’ when I was fifty … and just another birth day when I turned fifty-nine.
I’m still not ‘rich and famous’, as I swore I’d be when I was in my mid-twenties, although there still 165 days to go, so you never know.
My body’s certainly not in the state it was when I was in my mid-thirties. I only needed one pair of glasses then.
And I’m not planning on doing anything ‘special’, because as far as I’m concerned it really is just the next year after 59.
I wonder if we put so much significance on these ‘decade’ birth days because there’s no other ways to celebrate the major adult milestones in our lives that are also celebrated among our larger community, apart from, ‘old enough to get a drivers license’. Things like births, weddings, funerals, exist within a family and/or extended family community, but nothing on a larger scale. (except if it’s a ‘royal’ birth/wedding/funeral – ‘royal’ being anywhere from her Majesty, Liz the Tooth, on down – but that has more to do with encultured tribalism, which is another topic entirely)