Not to be young again

In five days I will turn 46 years old. I am blessed by the fact that growing older has never bothered me. I wear each year like a badge. Some years have been better than others, but each one has been quite unique. When I was growing up, I always wanted to be older. I could not wait to be a “grown up,” because all the grown ups I knew seemed to always be doing what they wanted to do. Being an adult meant being free. Now that I’m a “grown up,” I know that isn’t always the case, but I still have never found myself wanting to be young again. Why would you want to? I know aging can sometimes be unkind, but in order to be young again, you’d have to give up everything you’ve learned and experienced since youth, and I wouldn’t be willing to do that. Not for anything. So I’ll welcome the added year the way I always do — with little fanfare. After all, it’s really only a number, and my birthday is only one day on the calendar. I still have a little bit of hair left. My body isn’t falling apart just yet, although my eyesight isn’t quite what it used to be. That’s the way it goes.

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