Taming an eighteen-year-old spirit inside a 45+ body
It’s a happy birthday always ! No one wishes anything different.
And so was it, a happy birthday thing that I enjoyed in the recent past.
I rarely choose my own birthday cake. It’s always a surprise presentation by my children or my better half. They never suffer giving me a surprise with their breathtaking cake choices. As for my hosting of their birthday cakes, they are rarely expecting any surprises. You see, I think plain, maybe just the reason that I am not tempted by choices- like I always land on a blue or yellow or pastel shades for my wardrobe, I get trapped by the shades of strawberry or blueberry for my cakes. “Ummm” for the choice but always a “wowwww” for its taste and …aftertaste! That’s my family :)
I am not a birthday fan; I like it private and without much crowd.
I enjoy its disquiet mornings for the roses that blind my eyes, or a piece of gold earrings on my palms and those questioning eyes with the usual comment, ‘Do you like it?’.. How could I not love gifts or not feel grateful to them for having nailed it down on their memories, and all this out of love and care, and the necessary responsibility on them to show that they do love and care. I enjoy the mornings, also due to the friendly calls and birthday wishes by extended family and friends. Each one with their voices and pauses, nudging me down through pleasant memories, and casting shadows on the unpleasant memories if any that were associated with them. A single word of love can tear a dark labyrinth, and for those who want to tear them away, birthdays are a great occasion to reconnect.
And so was it this year too. Orange chiffon cream cake.
As the pieces parted in deep triangles and birthday kisses were exchanged, the twilight outside my window reminded me of the twilight days of my ripening body. I was living my middle age. A shame I thought to myself… that although in good health for my age, my body is actually an innocent victim of time yet the spirit inside me is refusing to age. Scandalous! or is it not ?!
My parents still get to command their eighteen-year-old daughter. In their eyes, I am still there. My husband spoils me like his eighteen-year-old girl-friend that I once upon a time was, with goodies and forgiveness. In his eyes, I am still that eighteen-year-old to whom he had proposed love. We walked down the aisle, we bore children, our children have turned eighteen plus and to him I remain there at that age. For his wanting lips and hungry arms, I am still the new bride. Nothing has changed.
Alas like how sleep wakes and dreams break… there are harsh reminders almost every day that cheats into my really woken up nerves. The penguin swaying of my gait every time I have finished watching a TV show, thanks to my tired knees. I don’t know why my shoulders have a soft C curve as I do the dishes every evening, or type emails on my work laptop. My regular yoga rituals have helped in keeping them less curvy in comparison to the many others who carry their body without much thought. The heavy rounds on my upper body, never stooped while I let my infants suckle litres of nectar for almost fifty months; but now they listen to the ageing of my bones and the whispers of my muscles and along with the thinning skin, they are turning lesser round.
The rule book of nature, does it not listen to the joys and desires of the spirit ?!
Although I love my self-pampering spirit, and the pampering love of the ones who treat me like an eighteen year old, I want my spirit to grow up and embrace its real age. Not that I want to feel old and withered and ripened, but simply because when death gates open, I don’t want to say to it or to myself that it is too early..
For all must go, all must leave, all must say parting goodbyes…
