I parked my car at the Save-A-Lot parking lot, turned off the engine and settled back in my seat with a long, tell-all sigh. “I am 60 years old,” I whispered. The voice was unfamiliar to me; older and wiser and tired.
I pulled down the vanity mirror just above me and looked deeply into eyes that belonged to my mother. Sixty years old, and what have I accomplished? No children. No book written. No awards for employee of the year or swimming trophies or beauty queen tiaras. Just 60 years that were slipping by way too fast and withered dreams that lay limp in my mind.
I tried, quite unsuccessfully, to remember my parents when they were 60. My father was 61 when he died, and my mom was 69. They were young. Their deaths came suddenly and with no warning.
My sister and I did not have to watch them suffer with dementia, loss of mobility, or deep ongoing pain. What we experienced was bewilderment and perhaps even denial that the two most precious people in our lives passed away while in their sixties. As the saying goes, it was, and will forever be, a hard pill to swallow.
“I don’t like being 60,” I announced to the car dashboard, my voice now above a whisper. “I don’t like it one bit.”
Sixty qualified me for unwanted senior discounts. Sixty prohibited me from turning the volume up on my car stereo while listening to Elton John, Fleetwood Mac, and the Rolling Stones. I could be someone’s great-grandmother.
Sixty introduced me to colorless, lace up shoes and ice cleats. Retirement was lurking in the shadows, and I could see a cane or a walker or maybe even a nursing home just over the horizon.
I placed my head carefully on my steering wheel, and exhaled. I would be lucky to have another 25 years left and I was just beginning. There I sat under a navy blue sky that was saturated with at least a zillion twinkling stars, feeling sorry for myself.
I don’t know how long I remained in that position and I am sure patrons passing by the white SUV noticed my bent-over frame. I am surprised that no one rapped on my window to see if I was still alive!
I got a bit uncomfortable after a while, (after all, my 60-year-old spine had lost its flexibility) and with great reluctance, I straightened myself in the seat. I turned the key in the ignition and rolled my window down just a bit. It was a beautiful October evening.
With the turning of the key, the car radio came on and I reached over and turned the volume up. One of my favorite songs filled both the interior of the car and my heart. Yes, chronologically I am 60 and considered an older, mature woman. I have a few aches and pains and my once flaming red hair needs a little color boost now and then. I am a genuine baby boomer, and I will be offered discounts, and assistance carrying shopping bags for the rest of my life.
But on this night, I am that little girl. I am that shy and bewildered adolescent. I am that young woman with a thousand dreams who falls in love again and again and again. I am the faithful wife, loving daughter, doting sister, hard worker, best friend and cancer survivor. I am 15, 35, 50, 60, 70, and hopefully 80, God willing! I am not defined by a number or a wrinkle. I wear hot pink Sketchers, drink chocolate milk, write short stories, and love to ride around in my brand new SUV (my 60th birthday gift) with the car stereo turned all the way up and the windows all the way down. I cannot find my way out of a wet paper bag, have no athletic abilities, am good at math, and there are very few words I cannot spell. It has taken many years and tears to create the resume of my life.
And now, the sixth decade of this journey awaited me, and hopefully the seventh and beyond. So, with music blaring, I drove out of the parking lot and headed home, my 60-year-old hands firmly on the wheel.
Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives in Connor with her husband, Dale, and their Goldendoodle, Barney Rubble. You may contact Belinda online at dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
