Musings on Turning Seventy-five
A few days ago, I celebrated my seventy-fifth birthday. Seventy-five is a robust number, a solid number. After all, it’s three quarters of a century, isn’t it! I have nothing against the number, but to have to attach it to my person seems bizarre. When I think of a seventy-five-year-old woman I think of my grandmother, but that’s not who I am. There must have been some mistake in the records. But wait! What’s wrong with being seventy-five? I now have seven and a half decades of experiences to hold onto. I have, as we say, been there and done that. My bucket list is getting shorter, and I feel a deep sense of satisfaction in the realization that my life has been fruitful. I give thanks for friends and family and for my Dominican Congregation that supports me more than I deserve. Seventy-five is a ripe age and it’s time for the harvest – drawing in the wisdom and the gifts as well as the challenges that have shaped me into the woman I am. Come to think of it, I like being seventy-fiv