They say it’s my birthday. Well, tomorrow anyway.
I’ve made no secret that I celebrate birthdays. I do not LAMENT aging. It is a privilege denied to far too many. I have peers forever frozen in time at 14, 16 or 17 years old. I could weep for all the milestones they missed. I’m not going to let a few gray hairs steal my joy. When I say celebrate I’m still going to work on my birthday. I had someone ask me if I took the day off. I said I did not because I’m not 12 years old. I’ll just eat my cake at work.
I was born in 1968. That makes me … not a spring chicken. I’m also GenX so that also means we refuse to age. Or act our ages. I’m not sure which. We were “old” kids and are now “young” old people so I guess it all evens out. We are the generation born between 1966 and 1980 that is noted for a fierce independence. This started pretty much the minute we learned to walk. It’s not that our parents “tried” to kill us. They just didn’t always seem to put a whole lot of effort into preventing it.
To be fair they may have just been exhausted. We used to swing higher and higher on those rickety metal backyard swingsets just to see if the swing set would, in fact, lift off the ground and risk flipping over entirely. Those were the days, my friend! We sure had a lot of fun along with a lot of bumps and bruises. All we did was rub some dirt on it and get on with living. Of course we now have the aches, pains and random scars to accompany these childhood adventures.
Feet
When I was in first grade I walked to school alone. If I wanted to go to the playground on weekends or during the summer, I walked there. Always. Parents never took us to the playground. That was where you went with your friends. Adults were rarely seen and if they were, we were instructed to yell “Stranger danger!” and run away.
My mom didn’t smoke cigarettes but my friend’s mom did. I am here to tell you that it absolutely was possible for two 9-year-old girls to stroll into the local gas station convenience store with a note in hand asking the clerk to please sell us some cigarettes. It made no difference that we could barely see over the counter. We strolled home with the cigarettes for her mother and a little sweet treat for ourselves to boot.
I have explained to young nieces and nephews how Blockbuster video worked. They, raised on digital streaming at the click of a button on a television set, or in the palm of their hand on a mobile device, could scarcely believe it.
Curses
I’m not much for cursing but when I do I basically curse like someone from a Dickens novel. “Good gravy” is my go-to phrase. I also enjoy tossing out “Jiminy Cricket!” if things get serious. I do not say “silly goose” because A) It doesn’t occur to me on the fly; and B) If you’ve ever met a goose they are the farthest thing you can get from “silly.” They are like stubby, prehistoric creatures with wings. Perpetually angry. Nothing silly about that.
Despite my tricky joints and a sense that they may not be making parts for my model year anymore, I still feel pretty young in my heart. On the other hand I have reached the portion of adulthood where I point to local gas stations, housing developments, and dollar stores every six inches and say (with a sigh) “I remember when all this was just open fields or woods!”
Finally, I have recently traced my absolute NEED to recharge at home alone frequently to my only-child formative years. I was a very mature child (really) and my mother felt safe leaving me home alone somewhere around sixth grade. I’m sure the statute of limitations has long expired and the truth? I was fine. I snuck some chocolate chips out of the bag, tried on my mother’s makeup and danced around singing Cyndi Lauper songs when I was supposed to be vacuuming or doing something more productive. I loved every moment of my time home alone. It was exciting, and I was fine. I didn’t drink any Drano or get a body part stuck in anything. My mom certainly didn’t have a cell phone in the early 1980s that would allow her to check in on me all day — or me to call her wherever she was. To be fair, even if she had, it’s not like I would have told her about the chocolate.
