They say that age is just a number. Okay, then, here’s a number for you – 66.

Yup. Today is my 66th birthday, the start of my 67th trip around the sun. And, if I’m perfectly honest with myself (the person I find it the most difficult to be perfectly honest with – don’t we all?), sometimes it feels like more than “just” a number.

At age 66, I have twice the wisdom I had at age 33. Twice the life experience. Twice the mileage (let’s face it, it shows); twice the wit (with age comes the ability to think funnier on my feet); and twice the laugh lines. Let’s think about that last one for a minute. You can choose to see the “twice the lines” part of that statement or you can opt for the “twice the laugh” part. I go with the latter. Because one of the most important things I’ve learned with each passing year is just how important it is to be able to laugh. At myself most of all. (Sure, I’d love to trade the facial lines of 66 for the smooth skin of 33, but not enough to go back. Not at all.)

More stuff that’s doubled in the last 33 years? The number of books I’ve read, for sure. The number of pages I’ve written, without a doubt. The number of baking successes (and fiascos!) I’ve had; the quantity of excellent music I’ve heard; the number of tulips I’ve photographed. Most important, the amount of love and support I’ve given to and received from my dear friends – and double the dose of reality to recognize true friendship from its disappointing imitation. And, while we’re in the neighborhood, at 66 my bullshit meter is twice as sharply honed as it was at age 33. Cool.

Being this age has granted me twice the grace, I hope, in moving through each day (not twice the gracefulness, unfortunately – that’s a different story). I’m a better listener and a better advisor, when asked. I’ve also learned the lesson about not giving advice when it’s not asked for, something that takes years to understand.

Another difference between age 33 and age 66? My confidence in myself. In my belief that I do have a voice and that it is worth hearing. And in my ability to use that voice for good. Or for funny. Or for both.

When I was 33, B. and I were still just friends, living on two different coasts. The single act of changing that dynamic and of getting married has multiplied – by way more than twofold in the ensuing years – the love, the caring, and the belief that someone cherishes me completely. You know how the Grinch’s heart grew ten sizes when he finally understood the meaning of Christmas? Mine has grown a million sizes because of this one remarkable person and his love.

Living well – that is, living a life that is meaningful in the important ways, like being there for others, having kindness as my credo, contributing through my art and my heart – is something I was only beginning to do at age 33. At age 66, I have blossomed, and I hope that what I share with the world is evidence of that.

So here’s to another candle on the cake; in fact, here’s to another slice of cake (or even two, if I feel like it – and I get the one with the extra frosting and the pink rose). Because living the joy is what I’ve discovered to be the secret of life.

That, and sharing my toys.

©2024 Claudia Grossman