It’s official, my old number has gone belly-up... Here, now, sits its replacement: 47.
47 – 47 – 47
There, I said it. Then, upon saying it, wrote it down on this blank white page, by last count... 4 times, like it's no big woop. Maybe it's not.
Now that I see it there in print it doesn’t look so bad; the 4 sitting almost elegantly next to the seven, crossing its long leg the way a flamingo might just before taking a relaxing nap… and the 7, well, it’s not as curvy as the 6 that used to sit there, nudging the four with its wide derrierre, but it too looks somewhat chic… its flat head wearing a sleek sou'wester that curves ever-so slightly, providing some shade and shelter from the sunny and rainy days up ahead.
Does anyone really care how old I am? Probably not. Can’t imagine why they would. I’m not even sure that I care that much about what number I have become overnight. Maybe that’s why I find it actually liberating to reveal my new number to the world. I’m somehow coping better this year than I was last year, my brand new 47 shoes ready for me to break them in during the next school year of life that awaits me, hopefully without too many blisters.
Maybe they’ll be like a pair of funky boots that help me to stand taller, sturdier, with a new perspective on the “forty-something” number that most women hope and pray no one will ever attempt to guess. But, I’m so much better this year about aging than I was a short year ago on my birthday, and ~ if I do say-so myself ~ my skin is looking a whole lot better than it did seven years ago.
I was, at 40, hitting puberty all over again with a terrific crop of junior-high acne that showed up when my hormones went berserk after the birth of my daughter. Then, at 42, these same 8th grade pranksters vandalized my pores once more when my son arrived on the scene, my graffitied forehead and cheeks spray-painted with a new patch of red bumps that would require heavy coats of zinc oxide diaper rash cream. Luckily, I had a vat of it from Costco for my baby boy's matching buttocks.
Atleast motherhood sits more comfortably on my shoulders now then it did when I had a drooling six-month old perched there, who then morphed into a territorial, screaming toddler demanding to climb back up, my pregnant belly about to burst with screaming baby number two. At 47, I am still coping with two demanding children under the age of nine, but I don’t feel like a teenage-buzzing alarm clock anymore handling it. I'd rather think of myself today as a regal grandfather clock, my big hand pointing towards the half-century mark with pride, my little hand reaching for another glass of wine.
It feels good to reveal the truth about my new number. I think I'll stand upon it proudly now, taller from the thought, enjoying the view from here. There will come a day when I cannot stand for long periods of time because my knees don’t work so good, and I will think back and remember the color of those funkadelic boots. Lucky girl. Size 47.
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