As another birthday looms, I'm forced to remind myself that some things actually become better with age. Wine, cheeses, adventures in my husband's '48 Ford truck. While a young woman in my 20s, my husband thought it would be fun to camp at Wisconsin's Devil's Lake – in the back of the truck. He threw in a mattress, a piece of old canvas, and off we went. After rigging up a roof with the canvas, we adjusted the mattress and rolled out the sleeping bags. I lay awake feeling claustrophobic under the canvas' mildewy smell. To make matters worse, the campers next to us had a different idea of camping. They cranked up their boom box and partied to acid rock most of the night.
Our adventures in the truck only had one way to go and I'm happy to report they've greatly improved. The grandkids love riding in it, bouncing along logging trails in northern Wisconsin or stopping at the Dari-Maid for ice cream. My husband and I can easily throw our kayaks in the back, grab the puppy dog, and rumble off to unexplored waters. And it proved to be a great background for a Christmas card photo.
Relationships also get better with age. My husband and I now know each other's faults (boy, do we ever!) and can skillfully work around them. Friendships deepen with time and can bring out the best in us. Family life enlivens as children's spouses and those spouses' families join the clan. And – joy of all joys – grandchildren.
My stories have gotten better as I've aged. At gatherings, I can now tell some doozies. Like the time I sat in the doctor's office waiting to be called. An older woman glanced at me, swiveled back to my face and smiled. Another lady stared at me then also smiled, this one strangely mischievous. The nurse called my name, and she, too, looked amused. It was so good to be surrounded by such fun-loving people. I sat down, preparing to answer the standard medical questions.
"Uh," the nurse began, "did you know you have a curler in your hair?" I felt the side of my head. Sure enough. I felt a pink bristling curler I'd stuck in 30 minutes ago to cure a flat spot. If I'd been 20, I'd have been devastated, wanting to crawl into the woodwork. But at this time in my life, I joined the nurse in a hearty chuckle.
With age comes retirement, which means more time to enjoy the things I love. Reading, writing, hiking with the puppy dog, horseback riding, and trips to the cabin to greet our pet ducks. Maynard and Mallary, the mallards we raised this spring, are now flying around, but still like to check in with us and peck our toes.
As I approach 60, my whole body image changes. I appreciate the parts that work and worry less about outside appearances. My father, dead at 55, never lived long enough to get wrinkles. I'm grateful for every crow's foot.
Advanced age means I know myself better, the good and the bad. I'm done with trying to fit into a mold that pleases parents or friends or spouse. Take me or leave me. "People," my actions say, "I'll never have picture-perfect linen closets or organized tupperware. Deal with it."
And I can appreciate my strengths, all I've accomplished, and all I still hope to achieve. I'd like to think my sense of humor has improved with age. While in my 20s, running an errand for my perfectionist husband, I naively stood at the lumberyard's counter and told the male clerk that I wanted "seven straight studs." It was only after I saw the guy's lips twitching that I realized what I'd asked for. Today, it wouldn't take me nearly that long.
A birthday celebration? I'm all for it. Let's hop in the old truck and head to get ice cream. But first, let me check for any stray curlers.