I’m 75 years old. Which, according to society, means I should be quietly quilting in a corner, collecting cats, and slowly morphing into a flowered sofa.
Instead? I’m still turning heads, rolling eyes (usually other people’s), and giving unsolicited advice like it’s my job, because honestly, it should be.
Inner Voice:
“Shouldn’t we be aging gracefully?”
Me:
“Honey, I left grace somewhere south of Otumwa. I’m aging like tequila, strong, a little dangerous, and best in small doses.”
I start each day the same way: with a groan, a stretch, and a smug smile. I strut into the kitchen wearing my birthday suit and zero regrets.
The mirror? Oh, we’ve reached an understanding. It’s my cheerleader now.
Mirror Me:
“That a new wrinkle under your eye?”
Me:
“It’s a laugh line. And if I get any more, I’ll have to charge admission.”
You think turning 75 means slowing down? Think again. I feel like a superhero only with better stories and more seasoning.
Confidence? I have enough to share, but I won’t. I earned this through a decade of biting my tongue to keep the peace.
Inner Me:
“Maybe keep opinions to yourself today?”
Me:
“Sweetheart, I tried that, my eyebrows rioted.”
Let’s be honest. At this age, people stop asking what you want to be when you grow up. But guess what? I’m still evolving.
I flirt for fun, nap like it’s a spa treatment, and sport hairy legs and butch haircuts just to confuse the patriarchy.
Relevance doesn’t have an expiration date. I am the expiration date. Try me.
Inner Voice:
“You’re being dramatic.”
Me:
“Correct. I’m the season finale.”
So what does it mean to be 75 and successful? It means knowing that peace is better than approval, naps are sacred, and your “fucks to give” filter disintegrates right on schedule.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to do something scandalous. Like say “no” without apologizing. Or chase sunsets, spicy food, and people who make me laugh so hard I snort. Or just . . . exist loudly. With comfortable shoes.
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