The virgin turns 65

It was a milestone birthday I had been anticipating with trepidation – dread, really. I was painfully aware that 65 is the age at which my father died, the age at which one becomes an official senior citizen, when one starts to be dismissed (at least by some) as “old” (although, now that I think about it, Hillary Clinton turned 65 just four days before me, and who is more vital than Hillary Clinton?) The day proceeded without fanfare, then it was over. But I took strange comfort from an unlikely source, for someone who is not as social-media attuned as my younger friends – and that is all those messages on Facebook, from people who just took the time to drop a line and wish me well. And from the friend who sent an old-fashioned card saying he had dedicated his morning walk to me. Blessings, all. Though I still can’t wait to turn 66.