Photo by S. Auberle
These days, as my birthday approaches, I've been thinking more and more about numbers.
Of course, there's the old chestnut: if you didn't know how old you were, how old would you be? No, that doesn't quite cut it.
So then I'm thinking what if each day your outside appearance changed--to reflect the age you felt inside? Because, let's face it---how I feel inside most DEFINITELY does not match my outside. Would we be a world comprised solely of eighteen year olds? A trendy looking group in the thrall of raging hormones and insecurities? Come to think of it...
Or would we alternate--sixty one day, thirty-five the next, and occasionally twelve. That would be me.
I've been thinking a lot lately about seventeen--what a great age that was. You've passed the driving test, the sweet sixteen stuff. And yet, you're not quite forced to make grown-up decisions--job, school, taxes, etc. You've got your body and hormones fairly well under control--unless, of course, you happen to be falling in love.
I remember the night of the Jr. Prom. Of course the theme was Some Enchanted Evening. And of course the weather cooperated perfectly--sweet May night, trees just in that tender bud stage that made you want to cry, full moon sailing over the little town.
I remember my dress. Strapless gold net, shoes to match, the perfect tan to offset it.
The newest love--he didn't last, but for that night Prince Charming couldn't have held a candle to him. And by then I'd kissed a few frogs.
I would never venture a guess as to my inside age on this birthday soon to come. And I won't have a gold dress to celebrate. Most likely, sweater and jeans--in the western town where I live, a denim skirt and boots is considered dressy. But there will be a prince, though he has been known to be froggy now and then. And maybe chocolate and wine and a bouquet of spring tulips.
Life is good.