When I married my husband many years ago, he was 21 years old. If someone had suggested at the time that I might ever sleep with a man who was 60, I would have been appalled. Of course I was a child of the idealistic ’60s, and this was before Anna Nicole Smith made women aware of the full potential of May-December marriages.
But yesterday my young husband turned the big 6-0 so guess where I end up each night? How did that happen?
Jim is quick to assure me that his birthday is only a chance figure on the Gregorian calendar, totally meaningless. But whether we use the Christian, Chinese, Indian, Islamic, Jewish, Ethiopian, Balinese, Mayan, etc., calendar, it still adds up to these facts: He is getting older. And I am right behind him. One year, two weeks to be exact.
We keep hearing that these days 60 is really 50, and I can believe that, judging by comparing us with my own parents and my in-laws. A 26-year-old co-worker was kind enough to inform me that 60 these days is really 30, which I think is a nice compliment, to her parents anyway.
Jim and I still play tennis, hike (OK, walk), and are young at heart. Just ask my kids (well, maybe you’d better not). But, darn it, we feel middle-aged at most, hardly about to enter the “old” phase of our lives. Except, come to think of it, we do take better care of ourselves. And we do value a good night’s sleep. And when we consider a new dog, “low energy level” is high on our list of desirable traits.
My husband will totally disregard his 60th birthday but then he ignores his birthday every year, being offended by those small, creeping increments as much as the decade markers.
But my women friends and I celebrate our decades together. When I turned 40, we went for drinks at the bar in the Danville Hotel. It was a Wednesday night and we were a bit rushed because we all had small children competing in a meet at the Livorna Swim Club. We hurried out at the conclusion of the meet, leaving wet kids and swimsuits in our husbands’ hands. After drinks and presents, we hurried home because we knew we had to rise early to get the same children back in the water again for swim practice.
Ten years later I turned 50, as did about eight of us who’d known each other through a neighborhood babysitting co-op, then PTA and swim club. By then our children were in high school or older. We formed a “birthday club” and took turns celebrating as each of us turned 50, which was spread over two years. I was first and we went to dinner at a San Ramon comedy club and laughed uproariously at both the comedians and the absurdity of nubile young women like ourselves being AARP-eligible. For another friend’s birthday, we drove into San Francisco together in a van to the California Culinary Academy. For a birthday card, we made one friend a “newspaper” with a huge headline declaring “Maria Carter turns 50,” with a full photo of her looking great, and stories, complete with interviews of high school boyfriends.
We may rekindle the birthday club to help us turn 60, starting next year, although most of us are still getting used to being 50. By that time, hopefully, Jim will be comfortable with being in his 60s. Then he’ll just have to get used to sleeping with a 60-year-old woman.
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