Yesterday, my grandson, Jack, turned 2, and I turned 60. Last night, three-foot tall, gold Mylar balloons of our ages floated above our respective chairs as we ate cake. And I asked myself a question: did I want to switch places and be 2 again?
Doesn’t each of us sometimes want to turn back time? Especially if we could tweak our decisions based on everything we’ve learned during this life.
But no, that’s not what I want. This is what I want:
To have people understand that inside I feel like I’m 30 and am surprised when they offer me the senior discount and sad when they discount my worth because of my age.
To have them understand that no, it won’t be different for you. Once, I was every bit as cool as you are (because frankly, you aren’t that cool). And yes, you will be equivalently dismissed and talked over and ignored.
To adequately articulate how fast it all goes and to effectively sound the alarm to “seize the day.”
To more frequently seize the day.
To effortlessly squat in order to reach my pen that rolled under my desk or Jack’s ball that rolled under the couch.
To meet 10 new people and remember all their names.
To eat steak and fries once a week with no consequence.
To run a fast 10k (and as a bonus, without wetting my pants).
To live in Paris yet have my entire family gather for dinner once a week.
To accept my choices.
To freeze this age forever.
But not live forever.
Yesterday afternoon we sipped wine in the hills next to Monticello in a vineyard aptly named Jefferson. The boys rolled in the grass, and Jack mimicked them and then laughed. The women talked, drank wine, ate cheese. A perfect fall day. As perfect an afternoon as I have spent in my life.