Here’s looking at you, 46. You leaning number, you.
Tipping the scale, toward the reality of sun spots and kids taking flight, wanting to freeze the frame on the reality that my parents are getting older too.
Can’t hide the lines, not concealing the gray. Coloring is still comforting—on paper.
In some ways not caring about the pettiness that used to get under my skin. Yet making an appointment to get that skin looked over because baby oil and bikinis all summer in the late 80’s, while listening to a mix of Simon & Garfunkel, Stone Temple Pilots, & Bette Midler on the Walkman—a stone’s throw from the safety of home, lounging in the collapsing lawn chair.
46 seems like a lifetime away from driver’s training yet a moment away from the homemade Holly Hobbie birthday cake floating down the river in a plastic bathtub.
The earlier memories feel nearer now that I’m older.
Here’s to you 46, not too old to get glammed up and live out teenage dreams that never panned out past the bathroom mirror. My 5’ 6” frame fell short then, but carries me now.
Here’s to you 46, changing into comfy pants (leggings) after dinner. Who are we kidding, off goes the brassiere too…blame that one on lockdown.
A lot of miles behind. Many more ahead. Hopefully.
Refusing to sink hope. They say it floats. Even when you have to fight for it among the clamor.
46…a thirst for significance still tangible yet shifting to that which significantly helps someone else. If they’re willing to receive what has been gifted—treasure available for the earnest.
Hard-won wisdom gained yet more growing to do. Not knowing it all but unwavering in what is known. A well-known melody, with a few bars of jazz. Textured dynamics that keep things interesting and beckon onward, upward.
46 is mysterious yet a by-product of seasons and years, of day in, day out living, breathing, repeating, shifting within.
It’s new and the same. It’s aging beauty and fresh eyes.
46 leans and stretches, increasing its capacity with a flexibility not dependent on actual muscles but on the muscles of faith, street smarts, and the sage advice of the old woman who fed the birds at the cathedral, “Life is fleeting, go home and love your people before they leave.”
46, what are you? A number, a feeling, a hurdle, a badge?
An invitation to not take breaths for granted, or the breathtaking, the tick tock, ring ring, and the goodnight kiss.
Seeing more daylight, and night. Stubbornly refusing to call it quits yet calling it like you see it. Pretense, adios.
Authentic and responsible. Tender yet tough. Tears more readily called upon—thicker skin inside, dryer skin outside. Softer skin, possible.
Cheers, 46. You’re nuanced and ordinary. You’re fleeting and fantastic. You’re a number that leans.
And for now, you’re mine.
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