I am 47 years young. I feel great, and am blessed with good health. I love to eat, drink and be merry (ie, party). I love, love, love to dance. When I drive around in my car, I crank my music up and sing at the top of my lungs. I love nothing more than grabbing one of my six grandchildren and rolling around on the floor with them, tickling them, putting them on my knees and playing the human see saw, or just generally being silly with them.
The other day, my oldest granddaughter asked how old I was. When her mother told her "Mimi is 47," Maggie thought for a minute and then said, "Wow, she's nearly dead."
I was reading "Atlas Shrugged" the other day and realized that the last time I read that book, I was a senior in high school. If I had known then, as I held that book for so many weeks (that damn book is too long!), that the next time I would read it would be THIRTY YEARS LATER, I would have imagined myself as an old, old woman.
The older I get, the more time seems to rush by. I think this is because when we are, say, ten - one year is one tenth of our life. When we are fifty, one year is one FIFTIETH of our life.
I don't want to get old. But it beats the alternative.
When you are young, life seems to stretch before you like a wide road, disappearing over the horizon. When you approach middle age, you begin to realize..."Hey, this road ends! Is that the end I see right up there? Lord, I hope not!"