At my desk
An artist in her 40s, whom I had just met at a restaurant in Lisbon this summer, asked me my age.
"Seventy in September," I told her.
"You look," she paused, searching my face and her conscience, "Like you're in your late 50s."
"No," I corrected her. "I look and feel 70. Please don't take away my years. I have earned them."
Late 50s?
She meant it as a compliment. I surprised myself by taking umbrage when, in the past, I have gladly accepted this sort of age-demeaning comment.
In a shorter span of time, I could not have lived my life as it is thus far. I have taken the road "less traveled by", "knowing how way leads on to way".
Without chance and choices, I would not be the person I am today. I embrace all of my life: the tears and the laughter.
I am happy. I am healthy -- more or less. After all, at my age, I know that I am not immortal. More and more of my family, friends and acquaintances are dying every year.
I am simply grateful to be here . . . still.
Very insightful for a birthday post