It is now officially confirmed.
I am older than dirt.
No, I didn’t just have, as people say, “a big birthday,” just a regular one, although I suppose any birthday over 30 or 40 or 50 is a big one. I have, however, lived comfortably in the land of denial throughout my middle age in that I have yet to buy a pair of reading glasses (didn’t say I didn’t need them, just haven’t bought them) and I’m still the same weight since my college days. Blood pressure and cholesterol are low and I’m grateful each morning that I am able to rise and be in the barn at 6 a.m, mucking stalls and working the first horse by 8:30 with no aches or pains accompanying to interfere with my way of life.
So you can see why I have been successfully fooling myself thinking with a triumphant air, “Honestly, I feel exactly as I did at 20!”
And then birthday gifts began to trickle in: a new pair of riding breeches (yippee!), riding gloves (keep ‘em coming!), a seat cover for my truck from Paul (exactly what I’d asked for) and, also from Paul, a small, carefully wrapped box.
Well, this makes any old broad heady- diamond earrings? A string of pearls? Ruby ring?
A stinking brooch.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s lovely. Honestly, an elegant piece of estate jewelry with filigreed gold and seed pearls.
But I’m not ready for a brooch!
This is to a woman what a pair of slippers or wool socks are to a man. A brooch says, “You’re at that age now where more conventional and comfy things should be your way of life. No more sexy gold hoops for you, Nanna. Put on your brooch and your support stockings and we’ll be ready to leave for the Golden Corral buffet in a few minutes.”
“Do you like it?” asked Paul.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said, not untruthfully. “Sure I like it.”
But I won’t love it for a good 20 years…