As the Cleveland Indians sucked me in for another season by starting off strong and the latest Carnival Cruise dilemma sealed my decision to keep any future vacations landlocked, yet one more unique occurrence transpired this week: my nephew and I celebrated our birthdays.
Happy birthday to my sweet honey, Scott!
Scott is my second favorite teenage boy on the planet, and he is now 15. I am now ... not 15.
Well, I mean, I am, but with three decades added on for good measure. And, as I pondered those 30 years between us, it got me to thinking about why I love getting old.
For instance, there are certain things by which you are no longer encumbered, such as the desire to want to run fast.
Sure, it'd be great to be as lightning quick as my much younger pal Amanda Fire of Canfield, who is such a speed demon in her running shoes that she qualified for next week's Boston Marathon without even trying. Heck, I'm not even sure she was sweating. BTW, good luck, darlin'; not that you will need it!
However, your old pal PK will not be qualifying for Boston this year. Or next year. Or any other year. And the truth is, I'm fine with it. Believe me, when you get to be my age, you're happy you can run at all.
In fact, I'm about a month into the "Insanity" workout, or as the girl handing me my coffee at Dunkin' Donuts in Hubbard last week referred to it, "Torture on Disc," and frankly, I'm grateful just to be standing upright at this point.
And speaking of gratitude, have you ever noticed how old people seem super appreciative of stuff? Well, we are.
Like, I'm so thankful for my boys and puppy, my family and health, my job and friends ... and my church. These are sorts of things we tend to take for granted in our youth. Only after the first signs of small cataracts begin to form in our aging lenses do we start to see things with a whole lot more clarity and realize what is most important.
And what isn't - like fashion at any price.
When you're younger, you tend to think that you should squish your tootsies into pointy-toe-and-heeled stilettos the height of the Empire State Building in order to look presentable. You also mummy-wrap yourself in jeans or girdle-typed contraptions so tight they'd pop off into the lunar orbit if you lifted your left pinky finger and exhaled simultaneously.
You endure hot wax, electrical shocks, plucking, tweezing, ripping, scraping, scrubbing, bleaching and various other methods of "prettification" that can only be described as interrogation tactics - all in the name of beauty.
But by the time you're comfortably into your 40s or above, you start to learn that your flaws aren't fatal and your imperfections are really just little merit badges of honor for your life's most impressive accomplishments such as that all-important one known as motherhood.
And you start to wear them proudly.
Some of my other favorite things about being old are: 1. Watching my son grow into a young man whose character makes me so proud that I would like him even if he was not the center of my universe, and 2. Finally understanding what my parents were attempting to teach me about and protect me from when I was younger ... and trying to spend an eternity thanking them for it.
But my very favorite part about being old is - being around to become ... old. Thank you, Lord.
So, maybe I can't run a sub-seven-minute mile. Maybe I'll never look like Selena Gomez. Maybe gravity is sucking my triceps down to my ankles. Dadgum it, I refuse to spend my 401k on liposuction.
Happy wrinkling, everybody!
Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist and really old gal. Contact her with turn-by-turn directions to the fountain of youth at firstname.lastname@example.org.