I know what you’re thinking… how in the hell did I get myself down there in
the first place. It took some soul searching and a little handholding,
literally, handholding.
You know it’s a deep plummet when you drop your belongings onto the chaise,
and they bounce back up from the kinetic energy of
the fall. My goal was not to bounce back up.
After scoping my surroundings to
confirm no one was staring in my direction… who am I kidding… no one was staring
in my direction… and with my own self pride at stake, I grabbed my husband’s
hand and gently lowered myself into position. It was more of a squat and roll
maneuver. Once down, I was pretty much down for the count.
Who designs hotel pool furniture that’s not functional to the masses?
Even the pool-side sofas and chairs were equally non-reachable without assistance.
I ached all over just contemplating my next move. The desire to visit the restroom
any time soon was quickly plugged. But, as I pondered the design question it
didn't take long to notice that the “masses” surrounding me were all a good
thirty to forty years my junior.
Where are my people? How was it that I became the oldest person in the room, or for that matter, on the pool
deck? Will I ever get up? It was quite apparent that the masses were consulted,
just not one that I’m a part of. Seriously, from where I was perched, all I
could see were a bunch of crotches and half covered asses gallivanting by. Was
that their intent when designing the pool seating? I for one certainly don’t
want to be recognized by my butt. At sixty-one years of age, is this the way of
my future? Crotches and asses? Is this as good as it gets? Not on my dime, or
quarter, or whatever the appropriate denomination is for a phone call. What do
you mean there’s no longer a denomination for a phone call?
We were in Florida
for our oldest son’s college graduation from the University of Miami. That alone
was an age defying moment, not just for me but for my son as well. For me, it
was a feeling of disbelief, that I had a child old enough to have acquired a
college diploma. For him, it was an awakening that adulthood was more of a
reality than a future endeavor. For me, it was a conscious sensitivity to time
and how quickly the years sped by. For him, it was an anxious concern of what
lays ahead and whether he had just completed the best four years of his life.
At
twenty-two years of age, was this as good as it gets? Not a chance. In fact,
from my experience, the best years keep coming. Sure, the prospect of college
was filled with excitement, but it was also filled with anxiety. College, as
with most chapters in our lives, was a time of self-discovery. It was a time of
experimentation. It was a lot of trial and error. It was all about expanding
one’s comfort zones or at the very least exploring what they were. College was
all about finding “your people.” College was hard, not just academically. It was
hard socially. It was hard emotionally. As with each chapter we encounter, it’s
a building block for things to come. How do you convince your son that the best
is yet to come, especially while stranded poolside on a chaise that you no
longer can navigate an escape from? And how do you convince him that the
uncertainty of his next chapter may give rise to apprehension, but it will give
way to possibilities he has yet to imagine and to relationships he has yet to
encounter.
I can because I had those same uncertainties and those same
apprehensions. My twenties shouldered the challenges of independence, while my
thirties shouldered the challenges of relationships and financial autonomy, only
to give rise to the challenges of matrimony and parenthood in my forties. And
don’t even get me started on my fifties. Now that was a good chapter.
I can
because at 61, I’m still exploring my comfort zones. I’m living my next chapter
and I’m involved in “possibilities” that I never could have imagined with people
I never would have encountered. At 61, for the first time I am writing to be
published. Because at 61 I’m able to focus more on my interests rather than
side-stepping them for everyone else’s.
I can because at 61, I’m relishing the
benefits of the growing pangs of marriage and raising children. At 61, I’m more
tolerant of Sunday nights and less anxious about Monday mornings. At 61, I’m
playing with my children rather than watching them at play. At 61, I can sit
quietly next to my husband without saying a word and know that I am just where I
want to be. Pretty good start to this chapter, wouldn’t you say? Now, if he
would only take my hand and pull me up from this god forsaken apparatus so that
I can get on with my best years. Wait a minute… I think I recognize that butt...
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