At 92, I have many blessings, one being able to still count them
Last month I reluctantly disposed of two bouquets of roses that I had received for my birthday. The red and pink petals were dropping, and the lilies had lost their delicious odor, but looking at them served to remind me of what a lucky woman I am. My birthday celebration was all week long, like what I understand is a Polish wedding.
Now a birthday is not such a big deal – everybody has one every year whether we want them or not.
But I was 92, not a favorite age. In fact, I thought of having a backward birthday and trying for 29. Nobody would believe that, so I am resigned – I am 92 years old. My friends from the present and the past sent me cards of congratulations. I was surprised at how many people remembered, given my own sins of omission in this category of late.
The custom of recording in my datebook the dates on which friends were to be congratulated was one I used to pursue religiously. Not so any more, as dates and reminders are subject to my aging memory. I am ashamed to be so well remembered.
And my Facebook “friends,” many of whom are my friends away from the computer as well, remembered me with good wishes. It almost took the sting out of being 92.