I am sixty-two years old. There is no getting away from it anymore. I have never fibbed about my age and I want to accept the advancing years with as much grace as I can. I have friends who have had or plan to have cosmetic surgery of various sorts: reductions, enlargements, enhancements. While I am not against anyone doing whatever they want to their own bodies, it is not for me. Along with the physical changes of these years, there are the mental. I still feel as though I am in my thirties - with all the hopes and plans for the future. The reality is different. I still wonder what I want to be when I grow up -- and then I remember my age. There are just so many years left. There are not fifty years ahead -- maybe if I am lucky another twenty years. Oh, but the dreams and plans are still there and some of them can come true. I think that part of the fun of it is in the dreaming. Perhaps I have a touch of Walter Mitty in me -- probably all of us do.
I started this post thinking about the things I would like to be when I "grow up." It has taken a different slant, so now back to the beginning. The first thing I can remember wanting to "be" was a dog breeder. My friend Ruth was going to be a horse breeder and we spent hours planning our stables and kennels and the names of our animals. We were seven years old.
When I had my first dog I wanted to be a veterinarian. When I was a "Candy Striper" volunteer in the hospital I wanted to be a nurse. Then I wanted to be a medical secretary and went to a school for that after high school. As an adult I decided to go back to school and become a psychologist or a social worker. Now I am a realtor. Totally not in keeping with my personality traits, but here I am. What do I want to be next?
My father was a "P.R. (public relations) man." He worked for a major museum in Philadelphia and was well-liked and well-respected. He was also a talented writer and instilled in me the desire to write well. I was told throughout school that I had the ability. I did nothing with it, but through the years there was always the tickle in the back of my brain to do something with this ability. However, the more I read the more I doubted that I had what it took to be a writer. I stopped trying. I think I have had a thirty year writers block.
This blog helps. But even in this rather basic writing outlet, I still struggle to find anything to say that is worthwhile and interesting, much less creative. But the dream is in the doing sometimes. So here I am.
Thanks for listening.
I am sixty-two years old. There is no getting away from it anymore. I have never fibbed about my age and I want to accept the advancing years with as much grace as I can. I have friends who have had or plan to have cosmetic surgery of various sorts: reductions, enlargements, enhancements. While I am not against anyone doing whatever they want to their own bodies, it is not for me. Along with the physical changes of these years, there are the mental. I still feel as though I am in my thirties - with all the hopes and plans for the future. The reality is different. I still wonder what I want to be when I grow up -- and then I remember my age. There are just so many years left. There are not fifty years ahead -- maybe if I am lucky another twenty years. Oh, but the dreams and plans are still there and some of them can come true. I think that part of the fun of it is in the dreaming. Perhaps I have a touch of Walter Mitty in me -- probably all of us do.
