By MICHELE M. BENDER
For The Tribune-Democrat
May 10, 2009 11:18 pm
—
I turned 60 yesterday, what folks call a “milestone birthday.”
“I don’t believe you’re gonna tell your age!” exclaimed galpal Lorraine.
I sorta can’t believe it either. I come from a long line of liars.
My mom claimed her Social Security benefit three years late because she’d fibbed about her age. When my great-aunt Bessie died, no one actually knew how old she was.
Four years ago, I set out one spring day to get my new photo driver’s license. I opened the sun roof, plugged in a Beach Boys CD and cruised to Geistown.
The place seemed unchanged from when I took my test there in 1965.
Two nervous teens awaited their turns at the course. Inside the building, the linoleum and walls were the same. But of course, the technology had improved. I got in and out in a jiffy.
As I climbed in my car, I thought, “Four years till I come again.” Then it hit me. “Yikes! I’ll be 60!”
Fast forward to three weeks ago. My friend Joe accompanied me to Walters Avenue. I posed for my photo, handed the old license over to be voided and received the new one.
Back in the car, I scrutinized the two pictures. “You know, I like the old photo better.”
Joe smiled. “Trust me. In four years, you’ll like THIS one.”
I’m handling this pretty well, although I swear the next person who tells me “60 is the new 50” will get smacked upside the head.
The only birthday to really unnerve me was my 25th. I grew up hearing “Don’t trust anyone over 30.” Adhering to that dogma, by 1979 I wouldn’t be able to trust myself!
Another buddy of mine, Music Dude (aka Jonathan) recently freaked out when he became a great-uncle at 53.
I knew the feeling.
When I was 35, I warmed a bench at Hersheypark, waiting while friends bought souvenirs. A woman plunked down beside me. “Watching your grandchildren on the rides?” she asked.
I wanted to rip her lungs out!
When my grandmother in Philadelphia died in 1968 (we think she was 84), the funeral home sent a car and driver to fetch her sister, the aforementioned Aunt Bessie, from New Jersey.
I greeted her in the receiving room.
“Michele, do me a favor.”
She handed me a $1 bill.
“A nice young man, really good-looking, drove me in from Mount Holly. He should be outside. Give him this tip for me.”
“Sure,” I obliged.
Hmm. Go to the parking lot and find a handsome young guy? My 19-year-old hormones surged.
His back was to me as I approached him. “Excuse me,” I began, “did you just drive an elderly woman in from Jersey?”
The man turned. He had to have been 70!
Age is truly relative.
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