It's Never Too Late

Born in 1950, the middle of the 20th Century, I've become a woman of a certain age. I'm past the shock of looking in the mirror one morning to discover I'd acquired my mother's thighs (age 24). I'm over the appearance of a dramatic bit of natural white hair (27) and the grocery boy calling me "ma'am" (29). Well beyond the pleasant surprise of surviving beyond my 30th birthday, too.

That last surprise, the 30th birthday, was the result of growing up in the 50's. Baby Boomers joke about the "Duck and Cover" exercises we did in elementary school, where we practiced hiding under our desks as if that was all we needed to do to survive a nuclear attack. But I grew up in the Washington, D.C. suburbs. And I was in possession of all the facts, thanks to an article in Look magazine that described what would happen if the Russians dropped a bomb on the Pentagon. I'd be vaporized before the alarm went off.

So I've always regarded the years past 30 as something of an unexpected bonus.

Don't get me wrong--I'm no Pollyanna. I've taken my share of lumps and setbacks. I've been stripped bare by some of them, including an episode of depression nearly four years ago that left me seeing how tentative my sense of who I am can be. I've tried to learn what there was to be learned.

And as I'm aging, I'm learning more about what it takes to stay flexible, agile, engaged and alive. And that's what I plan to write about.