52 is just a number, right?

I've been thinking a lot  about my age lately, and I'm not sure why. I'm not overly concerned by the fact that I'll be 52 in November. I don't feel 52. Most people who know me say that I don't act or look 52. It's not the kind of milestone that makes most of us reflect inward on our lives. You would think that would come at age 50, or 55. 

But for me it's 52. 

What is it about this number that has me doing all this naval-gazing?

It's difficult to define. I'm not unhappy. I'm not disappointed in myself or my life. I've accomplished the goals I've set for myself thus far, and am in a better place - emotionally and professionally - than I've ever been before. 

52. It's just a number, right?

Certainly, a small part of this hesitation to fully embrace my coming birthday is the acceptance of a few markers of times passage. I'm not as limber as I used to be. It takes me a little longer to loosen up in the morning and I ache a little more at the end of the day. My left knee doesn't cooperate the way it used to, though I still find myself sitting cross-legged on the couch, like a teenager. And strange thoughts pass through my mind, like "I don't remember ever seeing my mother sit cross-legged." 

I see other women who I know are my age, some a few years younger even, and I think they look or act so much older than me. It's not just maturity, not about being responsible or sedate. I may be many things in my life, but I don't see being sedate as one of them. And I am responsible - to myself, my family and my work. I make and keep the commitments that most mature adults keep. I get my teeth cleaned, pay my taxes, check on sick loved ones and return library books on time. 

So what is it that has my thoughts stuck on this merry-go-round?

Perhaps, a small part is that I'm no longer the youngest one in the crowd. I always used to be the youngest. Always hung out with people a few years older than me. Maybe that's a factor of marrying or dating older men. But that theory doesn't hold water. All of my husbands accept No. 1 and my current, forever-love, have been younger than me. So, I guess it was just a function of being prematurely mature. Because, in all honesty, I feel like I've been in my mid-thirties for my entire adult life.

That's not a bad thing. Those were wonderful years - all of them thus far! I did things, went places, met people and loved lovers like nobody's business. It was extremely gratifying, enjoyable and full. Not that it's stopped - with the exception of the lovers, of course. The Man Behind The Curtain has kept me blissfully monogamous for over a dozen years. But now, I'm one of, if not THE, oldest member. I don't try to behave or dress or act like the Thirty-something's I tend to socialize with, but I really do enjoy and prefer their company.

There's an energy, a vibe around this group of friends, whether on-line or in-person, that I want to soak up and bathe in every day. They're past the pretentious, unabashed, unaware pursuits of their twenties. A little more grounded, a little more tolerant and aware of the uglier truths in life, they still have a verve and zest for the world outside their door. It's tinged with the hues of disappointment, sometimes even cynicism, but they still hope. They still dream and reach for stars outside their windows. 

As do I. 

And maybe that's the crux of the matter. It's not the number "52." It's not the reality of my slowly slowing body. It's the fact that, at a point in my life when I see many of my peers "settling" for what the fates have dealt them, I'm still reaching. I'm still stretching my arm up, trying to grab the twinkling light of a star hanging high above my head. I'm still seeking goals and pursuits and dreams that may or may not come true. And I probably always will. 

I will live, until life has left me. I will heed the words of Dylan Thomas, and hope to shape the lives I touch to do the same:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Dylan Thomas