Who Could Have Wished For More?

Yesterday, I turned 62, which is a strange age to me. I remember my grandmother when she was 62, with her hair rinsed a faded tint of blue, curled close to her head from her weekly blow-dry and set. She seemed so old. While I don’t remember my mother at 62, because she always seemed the same age to me, set in her ways like concrete: deliberate, judgemental, small, unkind.

And here I am, 62 and still prevailing, despite it all.

I think of my life, and how it has transpired and played out and meandered and traversed, and regret that I don’t have the audacity and grace to be like Stephen Hawking who said of his life: ‘Who could have wished for more?’

Well, me. I could. I do sometimes wish for more. And sometimes I don’t.

Oh, yes. I’ve done things. So many things. All the things. And yet, none of the things. I wouldn’t say that I’ve lived a little life, which I never wanted to do, haven’t done. But it hasn’t been exactly big, either. I’m sure I’ve raised the ire of folks along the way who would have preferred that the singular beat that I marched to, the one that only I could hear, didn’t drum so much in their ears. Or hearts. Or even conscience.

My heart is filled with the people I have gathered around me, collected, curated. I’ve been drawn into generous, inclusive circles by virtue of being interested. Art. Song. Law. Writing. Music. Cats. Youth. Community. I live alone, but I am far from lonely. So very far, although I am sometimes outside, dwelling on the fringes of stubborn non-conformity.

At 62, my hair is grey, but not quite. My face has few lines, but the lines that are there are etched deep. The skin on my body is crêpey and thinning, but my muscles are strong, and I walk fast, striding with purpose. I am slim, slimmer than I have been in years, but my belly has jelly rolls that defy keto nuking and regular running.

I don’t wish to be young because who would want to repeat those mistakes? More time than not, I wish that I could have a do-over to erase the teeny-tiny, inconsequential decisions that only show up years, decades later as momentous, life-changing mistakes. And if you think I’m talking about you, you’re right. And wrong.

Is it too late to wish for more? Maybe. But other than a few fundamental changes, I’m mostly content. Not 1oo% content, but close enough. I can live with the things. Freedom. Health. Smarts. And the not things. You know what they are.

Happy birthday to me.

Image: Shelley Evans from Pixabay