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“In a 1995 study of Americans between 55 and 74, most of them felt 12 years younger than they actually were. Studies in Germany and China have yielded similar results.”  This statistic was taken from “O Magazine” (do not judge. Oprah rocks). It was taken from an article on Aging and Emotion, and it said that this statistic is more true of women than of men, and that people who experience this–we ought to name it–are more likely to live longer than people who feel their age. Age disjoint? I wonder if the study has been conducted on younger people. I do feel about 20…

But, Mom shouldn’t worry. Technically, according to the internet, she is still middle aged. Between 25 and 75, is the range, and middleage.org defines it as the subtle shift from defining your life according to your potential to thinking about life in terms of your limitations. According to this definition, both my mother and I are middle aged. I take issue with this.

Mom’s Birthday Poem. I’m drawing a blank. Or, not really a blank, but an “everything” except what I actually want to be writing on. But, I have to do it, and quickly, because the party is about to begin.

Age out of Joint

This age is out of joint with your joint. No where near rusting, they still bend with potential energy and good pops, and what good would it do to believe otherwise, or to listen to the gurgling whispers of the aches after hard work? Hot baths. Your answer for all that ails. Middle aged,  believe it. If anyone can make the triple digits, it is you, with your plans and your projects.

Let all time gather in a single current now. Imagine that, a midway point, an entire lifetime more, an utter storm of wisdom for as long as it has taken to stockpile it. Imagine you have twelve more years to get to this age, if mental math adds up, twelve years before the numbers match the bones.

This is the time for peace and completeness, and for knowing what the hell you are doing, finally, what a relief. Time for the peaceful heart, for there must time for one, finally, time for light years.  “Life is weather. Life is meals”, the wisdom of these lightening decades. Iridescent enough for several more, in your eternal mountain home, creek of heaven running wild, laughter foaming on the ripples, in this second life in the age of limitless mirth and immeasurable gladness, this is the time for joy over mere nothing.

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The quote is James Salter, and “joy over mere nothing” is tagore. Another poem about age. Happy Saturday!

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