I was born in 1937. So what?

Me, me, me.  Is this damn blog going to be about me all the time?  Lordy, I hope not, but I somehow feel the need at this point to tell my age.  Not to brag about it or even to complain about it–it is what it is–but to get it out of the way so we can move on and just be us together.

I have hit the age where “elderly” now fits. To some folks the thought of having to be around old people is icky.  To them, members of that group take on a whole different aura, as if the outward signs of aging–the sags and bags and blotchy parts–have suddenly made them (us) alien creatures–deaf and dumb and so forgetful the 1940s, 50s, 60s, 70s and 80s are all a blur–as if they didn’t happen to us. We have become so not cool.

Well, who needs them?

But in case you want to know how it feels, months ago, on my 75th Birthday, I wrote this:

On Waking Up to 75

September 17, 2012.

So yes, it has happened:  I am 75 years old today.  Don’t worry, I feel fine.  I’m still the same person, but one now saddled with the realization that I have lived three quarters of a century.

I’m planning a big day in which I’ll be pondering some burning questions:  How the hell could three quarters of a century have sailed by so fast?  If I had been paying attention, could I have done something to slow it down?  And any chance I’m only half way to the end?

But it’s not just my big day, it’s a big day for you, too.  You probably don’t often get a chance to sit by the side of a septuagenarian, gleaning words of wisdom.  I’ve always wanted to do this and now I think I’ve earned the right.

So here they are.

Ramona’s Words of Wisdom.


Five things I’ve learned along the way:

1. I don’t know everything and it’s beginning to look like I never will.

2. 75 feels just like 74, only older.

3. Laugh lines look no better than frown lines, but you have a lot more fun getting them. (I may have stolen that one, but it was probably from some old broad, so who cares?)

4. Life is good when life is good but it really sucks when it’s not.

5. . . . . . . . (Apparently there were only four.)

So off I go, trying to get used to the idea that, as long as I keep breathing in and out and can still hop on one foot, this three-quarter-century thing might be okay.  (But if something happens to change that I’m going to be pissed.)

Me at 12, Highland Park, MI – Not a thought in the world about ever being 75
Me yesterday — Trying to remember what it felt like to be that girl



About constantcommoner

Ramona Grigg. Freelancer, blogger, essayist, photographer, dreamer. Island dweller. Yooper.
This entry was posted in Just for Fun and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to I was born in 1937. So what?

  1. Rick Mcginn says:

    Belated Happy Birthday ! Thank-you for the post.


  2. Belated thank you! And you’re welcome! :>)



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