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Me at Sixty-Two

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I’m sixty-two years old and have had many epiphanies. My most recent “awakening” concerned my appearance. Forever I have berated myself for being short, redheaded, fat, not very pretty, and not graduating from college. I’ve always compared myself to actresses and models because since I was a teenager they have been touted as the ideal way to look, dress, and behave by the media. My mother was disappointed because I didn’t look like Shirley Temple. My dad was disappointed I wasn’t petite and slender. My husband-to-be said I was a fat, pimpled, freckled, redheaded broad. Not sure why I married him except I was afraid I wasn’t good enough for anyone else!

Anyway, on to my enlightenment. I’m probably never going to be tall, slender, pretty, or anything but a redhead whose hair is now turning gray. So—I’ve decided I’ll enjoy life anyway, and no matter how stupid my interests are to my mother or my acquaintances, I’m indulging in my interests while I’m still here to enjoy them. I love cozy mysteries—okay, so it doesn’t take an Einstein to understand a cozy mystery and it probably means I’m not too bright but I enjoy them. I like scrapbooking but with a group. I like quilting while watching old movies. I’m leaning to crochet. And I’m learning to ride a Harley. I like gunsmithing and I love my three dogs. I love my job as a legal assistant, too. Della Street was always my hero.

I decided to just be me. It’s an adventure everyday now because I’m getting to know myself for the first time in my life. It’s fun really. And I’m wearing my hair like I like it—not to get men’s attention or to get compliments from women. My husband has become a very supportive spouse since our reconciliation in 2004. We were married in 1966 and the past year has been the best of those forty-three years.


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