What me 60?

I think 60 year old women are not supposed to spread their arms and pretend they are airplanes (complete with zaroom noise) while walking in the park. I don’t think they can pretend they are fairies fluttering with delicate wings from a yellow flower to an orange flower. Or skip with a big grin on their face while singing some song from their youth. Well, I guess it is okay if they are with a grandchild. But alone? December I will be 60. When 60 years passed I have no idea. I always thought I’d reach my idea of an adult by now. However, I still sleep cuddled up with my stuffed bear (and of course my two dogs.) I love hot chocolate in the winter and ice cream causes my eyes to glitter in the summer. Flowers are imagined as fairy dresses and having fun, as always, is my primary goal. So I check to see if anyone is nearby before I twirl in the middle of the sidewalk pretending I am wearing a light pink tutu. I hide this part of me from a judging public’s eyes. Now don’t get me wrong. I’ve done a lot of adult things like get an education, work, live alone and support myself. I’ve attended boring professional dinners and conventions. Speaking with political correctness while boiling inside and leaving any sign of passion outside when dealing with issues was a great skill. But I’ve never given up my childish ways. Now I will be 60. The age, as each age, is welcome. I mean, think of the senior discounts. I am still me, still happy. A world of fantasy, art, music, and dreams of love still remain. Yet I feel publicly I must display the dignity I did as a higher education administrator and professor while inside I am dancing as I did at 20. Perhaps the difference with 60 is some things I do such as those in the opening paragraph must be hidden. But wait until 80! At 80 I won’t care who sees or thinks I’m crazy. I’ll just smile sweetly and keep dancing in the middle of the street wearing a rainbow tutu and wig.