I hadn’t talked about my age much, except
maybe among friends and family. But I’ve
decided that at 70, I’m ready to flaunt it. 

I started with Kelly, who has been cutting my hair for more than 15
years. She’s about 40 now. “NO,” she
exclaimed. “It can’t be true!” Next my
personal trainer (if you call someone you see four times a year a personal
trainer). She sent me a birthday card
after I told her my secret. At the
bottom she wrote, “No one would believe you are turning 70.” Finally, I told a few people at work. Twenty-five year old Erin’s eyes
widened. “You can’t be 70, she
said.” Paulina, a 50-something colleague
responded by “demanding” my exercise program.  Her thought: If it works for her it’s worth trying. Even my kids’ friends reportedly were
genuinely surprised to hear that I was in my eighth decade (just barely).

So I ask this question? Who looks 70 and what makes anyone “look”
that age? I have friends in their 70’s,
but I can’t describe any shared characteristic like X-number of wrinkles or
gray hair or shuffling feet. I guess how
one looks is more a reflection of attitude or behavior. Does my riding my bike to work or studying
beginning Spanish make me look “not 70”?

A birthday card that I received several years
ago sits on the bulletin board above my desk at work. Its message: “It’s not the years in your life, but the life in your years.” So there was my answer—just waiting for me to
notice it.

A lot of life is
about family, that circle of people who have known you forever, those folks who
share your triumphs and failures and who put up with you at your worst moments,
because that’s what families do.

Friends are another
story. Friends are not about obligations;
friends are about love. 

I turned 70 at a
beautiful party with 22 friends two nights ago. No one there had known me less than 20 years, and I have known many who were
there for more than 50 years. Remarkably, all are still married to their original spouses.

I could talk about
the fabulous food in a beautiful flower-filled setting with fireplaces ablaze.
(I had nothing to do with the planning.) But instead, I want to talk about being loved. When you think about it, how often are you at
an event with only people you chose because you can’t imagine celebrating
without them? And how great it is to
have all those people meeting each other?

The evening
flew. I moved from table to table; I
couldn’t get enough of everyone. We
gathered in couches surrounding the fireplace for dessert, a sinful flourless
chocolate birthday cake (no singing).  People
spoke about their relationships with me, and why they were happy to be there. They brought back distant memories about how
we met or what experiences we’ve shared. It was a magical evening.

And now, I’m 70.

It’s
a crystal clear Saturday, this last day of my sixties. I woke early with a butterfly-y feeling in my stomach, reminiscent of many other milestone occasions in my life.  However, it does feel different because I am going to be 70 tomorrow.

Tonight,
friends who have been so important to my life will gather at a party planned by
Peter with the help of our friend Tina.  I know nothing about what will happen.  What I do know is that these are all people who have enriched my life by being my friends.  We have shared (mostly) triumphs together,
as well as some sadness. Peter often
says “life isn’t fair”. He adds, “Thank
God”.  

More when I am 70. 

About
five years ago, a friend in her 50’s, I in my 60’s and another friend in her 70’s shared our thoughts about our respective decades.  Here is the introduction I wrote to my part at that time.

"I celebrated turning sixty.  And I mean celebrated!  Whereas, on my fiftieth, I fled the country to avoid my birthday, I celebrated my sixtieth by running up a hefty tab at one of New York’s très
chic and très cher restaurants with my husband, a son, and close friends.  I had loved my fifties,
and believed that there would be more ahead worth celebrating. Yet who would guess that during the first two years of my sixties I would meet an 82-year old half-sister that I hadn’t known existed, I would make my first visit to South America and fall in love with Chile, and I would have an op-ed piece published in The New York Times that inspired a public television documentary."

Many other wonderful and memorable things happened in my sixties.  There was a trip to Africa with our grown children, a son’s wedding, a first (and second) grandchild, continuing success in my career, and more. 

So, I am positive about my 70’s (now five days away).  there are different issues that have moved to center stage as I face this decade.  I feel our country is less safe.  I feel our planet is less safe.  I am anticipating my own losses.  I remind myself that it is important to prepare for the inevitable, but just as important not to become obsessed by it.

So bring on the 70’s!  I’ll be grateful for every day.

A colleague with eight and eleven-year-old sons tells me she hopes 
that, when her boys grow up, she and her husband will have as close
a relationship with them as we seem to have with our grown 
children.  Close? Yes. Seamless?  Of course not.  Here are a few
things I try to keep in mind:

*There is no such thing as a perfect parent.
*There is no such thing as a perfect child.
*Never take credit for how children turn out.
*Never take blame for how children turn out.
*Eliminate "should" from your vocabulary.
*Whenever possible, wait for grown children to call you.
*If you can't stand waiting, send a two word email, or, even 
better, a text message that says "home safe?" or "all is well?"
*Ignore these rules if they don't work for you

Unlike some of my friends, I never thought
much about whether or not as an older woman, I had become invisible–whatever
that means. That is until one spring day
about ten years ago when I was walking along a Manhattan Street with my young
friend Nina. Nina is stunning. Black hair, blue eyes, perfect pale skin and
a killer body. I noticed that men’s
glances lingered as we passed by. I
quickly figured out that I wasn’t the attraction.

I can live with that. I do not depend on the glances of men to feel
good about myself. Besides, I have Peter
who thinks I am still beautiful. That’s
what counts. Please, no comments about
the fact that he doesn’t see as well as he used to.

But something very nice happened last
week. A young colleague whom I
don’t know very well took me aside before a meeting. She asked if I had been
walking near the reservoir with my husband the previous Saturday, and I replied
that I had. This is what she told
me:

“On Saturday, my
partner and I were driving home from obedience class with our five-month old
puppy when we slowed down for some traffic near the reservoir.

We simultaneously let out an extended ‘aaaaawwwww.’ Walking along, with their
backs to us—was a distinguished-looking couple, each with lovely gray-white
hair. The woman had reached over and put
her arm around the man with such a tender and sweet gesture. He leaned into the small embrace.

While we felt that we had invaded a
private moment, we were both touched by the event. We remarked that we hoped that we still
touched each other like that when we were their age. At that point, we drove past
them, and I said to my partner, ‘I know that woman!’”

Invisible? I don’t think so.

Several years ago our son Jeremy
asked Peter and me to write about our lives up to the time he was born. So write we did. We enjoyed trying to capture the essence of
our growing up and the patterns of behavior we developed that made us who we
are today, for better or for worse.

We were surprised that each of our
hastily written autobiographies of "the early years” ended up to be seventeen
single-spaced pages long, and astonished to learn things about each other from
reading about our lives before we met.

Then last spring, Jeremy asked us to
talk about where we are in our lives on videotape. The plan was that the tapes would be embargoed
with no one having watched them until it was played for our grandchildren in 20
years. Jeremy set up the camera on the
porch, left me, saying he would be back in 15 minutes and instructed me to talk.  By the time he came back, I was reduced to
tears, saying how much I loved everyone to the video camera. Then it was Peter’s turn, and I have no idea
what he said, but I do know that he had more trouble filling the 15 minutes
than I did, typical silent-male type that he is. 

I often wish I could talk to my
parents these days. I want to know what
they were thinking at my age. How did
they feel about turning 70? I want to
know more about my father’s difficult childhood. I want to know if my mother ever wished that
she had had a career other than as a mom. I wonder if she had that empty
feeling in the pit of her stomach that I always have when a child leaves after
a visit home.

Through our writing about our early
lives and our recording about where we are now, our children will have answers
to some of the questions I wish I could ask my parents. And maybe, just maybe, our grandkids will
tell their own children what life was like for their grandparents at the turn
of the 21^st century.

I’ve never been a huge TV fan.  Sure, I watched plenty of sports with my boys I’ve never been a huge TV fan.  Sure, I watched plenty of sports with my boys when they were growing up.  Peter and I never missed Upstairs/Downstairs on PBS’ Masterpiece Theatre in the 70’s, and I still watch figure skating at the Winter Olympics every four years.  Like the rest of the world, I watched Seinfield,  and when I stayed up late enough, Saturday Night Live.

But compared to most folks, I’m pretty much a non-watcher.  I always seem to have something else I’d rather do.

That was until, on the strong recommendation of our son Seth, we added the first season of Lost to our Netflix list.  (Watching movies on our TV screen does not count as watching TV, by the way.)  For some reason. that opening episode with the plane crash got me completely hooked.  Hooked on a completely impossible story line that gets less believable with each episode.  It’s masterfully produced so that each episode leaves one in complete suspense, and I’ve been known to give in and watch more than one in an evening.

It turns out that some of my work colleagues are also fans, and one offered to lend me all of Season 1.  And now, I am a complete slave to my TV.  My good-natured husband makes fun of the unreal events that unfold, but I notice he always manages to join me, and I don’t think it’s just because of the peanut M&M’s that have become part of our ritual.

Of course, we raced through Season 1, and the same friend, anticipating our need brought us Season 2 without being asked.  She and her family are now watching Season 3, and they will probably catch up in time for the Season 4 debut three days from now.

Alas, we will remain in catch-up mode.  Can’t reach us?  We’re lost in Lost.

In the middle of the night, the slightest headache is an incipient brain tumor, a child not-heard-from has been abducted, a work concern is a full-blown crisis, and I’ll never have an idea for another blog entry.

In the morning…all is well.

Call it squabbling; call it minor arguments, call it what you will.  My husband Peter and I bicker.  Actually, we bicker often.  And inevitably, we bicker about something ridiculous.

For example, this morning I asked Peter why he was mailing a letter to a person in a place he was actually going to be within the next two hours.  If he carried it by hand, a) it would get there sooner, and b) it would save a stamp.  "Oh," he replied, "I’m going to the gym first, and I don’t want to carry the letter with me."  I retorted, (something like) "That is really stupid!"

This "conversation" took place between two people who totally love each other and have for more than 40 years.  Two people who have a great marriage.  Two people who hardly ever argue about anything important,  at least not since the kids left home.  So I wonder, does every couple bicker?

I think one of our sons first called attention to our bickering from the back seat of our car one time when we were lost.  It wasn’t all that long ago.  We were stunned.  We had never noticed before.  But, of course, he was right.

Cars are a great location for bickering, especially if one member of the couple has no sense of direction, and the other won’t ask for directions.  Sound familiar?  (By the way, the one with no sense of direction is far superior at getting back, once we get where we are going.)  Or for a car parking example, "You’re a mile from the curb."  "No I’m not.  I’m directly behind the car parked in front of us."  I could probably come up with a number of grocery store aisle examples, but I think I’ve made my point.

I wouldn’t want to give the impression that bickering occupies a disproportionate amount of our time.  Most of the time, we are best friends, always appreciating each other, always helping each other.

But still, we bicker.