My niece got married last weekend. It was a simple wedding, bouquets made from household garden flowers, a potluck meal, folding metal chairs organized by a team of volunteer friends. Well, not people who volunteered to be friends, but you know what I mean. It still took several months to organize. The bride was seemingly quite calm, radiating more excitement than nervousness. And at the end of the day, she was right were she wanted to be: married.

Growing up we went to a neighborhood bodega to pick up 6 gallons of milk every week. There was usually 6 glass milk jugs to return, sometimes not because, well, glass. That was back in the day when everyone had milk at every home meal and purchased a personal carton for a nickel at lunch time. Oh, and sometimes before the bill was paid, I got to run over to the deli counter and have a stick of pepperoni wrapped in white butcher paper to add to the milk total.

I so enjoyed most all the days of being 55, and haven’t really had many thoughts about feeling older as past birthdays came and went. This year as year 56 drew near, I started to dread the thought of being on the high side of 50. Somehow 56 sounded ‘old’. Well, I’m just going to own it. My age is what my age is. It’s how I choose to live each year that is important.

Yikes! Maybe I AM old now that I’m using the phrase ‘back in the day’.