Today is daughter Molly’s birthday. And as son Adam pointed out early this morning, we know that because it is icy in Dallas, Texas. Over the years, it has been icy on Molly’s birthday so many times that her emoji today was Elsa from Frozen.

But it’s not Molly’s birthday I want to talk about, it’s mine.

I turned 70 two weeks ago. This milestone birthday has hit me particularly hard. Maybe worse than any other. This one has caused an abundance of self-reflection, regret, and not a small amount of self-loathing.

The self-reflection involves a good bit of naval gazing, self-help reading material, quasi meditation, and a full-length mirror. To see what I mean, here is an excerpt from a manuscript I’ve been working on called Sensible Shoes, where our heroine Tess, who is only turning 50 by the way, takes stock of her current physical condition. Lord help her.

I rarely stood naked in front of the full-length mirror mounted on my closet door. Okay I NEVER stood naked in front of it. I always bustled right past, eager to become fully clothed as quickly as possible, lest it get a good look at me.

The mirror had been my enemy as long as I could remember. Pointing out my shortcomings, mocking my chubbiness, taking inventory of my numerous flaws. No, my mirror was not my friend, and I gave it the cold shoulder as often as possible, stopping by only long enough for a perfunctory once-over on my way out of the room in the morning.

But naked, for longer than it took to wrap my fuzzy fleece robe around me and slip on some warm socks at night? No, I don’t think so.

Which is why as I stood there the next morning, birthday suit freshly scrubbed from the shower, I felt as if I were looking at my body for the first time.

I should have checked on it sooner.

Starting at the top of my head, I immediately dismissed my limp, string-straight hair as not my fault. It was my mother’s hair and her mother’s before her. Trust me, hand-me-down hair does not hold up well. I had tried every product out there:  body builders, fluffers, thickeners, and volumizers.  Sprays, spritzes and gels.  Leave-ins and rinse-outs. I had even stripped all the color out of it once because someone said it would give it body. I ended up with limp, string-straight blond hair.  Within four months I looked like an aging rock star.

That led to my short-hair period. I cut it off in stages until it was so short that I was frequently and publicly mistaken for a man. That led back to the current long-hair period.

I had given up on my hair.  I was learning to live in my hair. To be happy with the hair God gave me. And my mother and my grandmother.

My gaze traveled down to my face and rested on my eyes. They were of a non-descript color, not really hazel, not really green, well-shaped and fairly big. I had always considered them the saving grace of my face, although recently they had begun to betray me, having more and more trouble focusing on anything within a three-foot radius.  Eventually I bought bookish black reading glasses at the drug store, thinking they made me look hip and smart. In reality, they probably made me look old and presbyopic. 

Making my way down my face, I noted chubby cheeks, splotchy skin tone, an okay nose and full lips. After that things got dismal.

I was pillowy. Soft and thick and squishy. From the front I looked merely dimply, but from the side—oh my Lord! I looked six months pregnant! 

Well, things had obviously gotten completely out of control while I was busy hurrying past the mirror. I had turned into Tweedledum’s sister, TweedledeeAnn.  At any rate, I was round.

Oh, the fat was spaced out well enough on my 5’8″ frame, so that no one actually ever asked me if I might be pregnant, but showing enough so they might be thinking it.

I wasn’t sure which was worse: to be mistaken for a man or to have people think I was a 50-year old, presbyopic, unwed mother.

This is somewhat autobiographical. You can’t spend time naval gazing without realizing you’re fat.

The regrets are mostly about food and exercise. Too much of one and not enough of the other. When you hit these zero birthdays, you have an appreciation for lost time. When you lose someone you love to the consequences of too much food and not enough exercise, you also have an appreciation for lost time. And poor choices.

That’s leads to self-loathing. And more poor choices. . .like the six-pack of ice cream samples from Andy’s. Which leads to more regrets.

Oddly, it never leads to a walk.

I will close by sharing this from a Facebook post this morning. It helps me feel better about turning 70.

An extensive study in the U.S.A found that the most productive age in human life is between 60-70 years of age.
The 2nd most productive stage of the human being is from 70 to 80 years of age.
The 3rd most productive stage is from 50 to 60 years of age.
The average age of NOBEL PRIZE winners is 62 years old.
The average age of the presidents of prominent companies in the world is 63 years.
The average age of the pastors of the 100 largest churches in the U.S.A. is 71.
The average age of the Popes is 76 years.
This tells us in a way, that the best years of your life are between 60 and 80 years.
A study published in NEW ENGLAND JOURNAL OF MEDICINE found that at age 60, you reach the TOP of your potential and this continues into your 80s.
Therefore, if you are between 60 -70 or 70-80 you are in the BEST and 2nd best level of your life.

SOURCE: N.Engl.J .Med. 70,389 (2018)

I’d go for a walk now, if only it weren’t so icy.