As of today, I have been on the planet for 24,546 days. I started posting this on a whiteboard in my bedroom sometime last year. It seemed important to me to keep a tally. What I hope to never find out is how many of those days I have squandered. Especially now, I have an acute awareness of the passage of time, of the certainty of change and the weight of choices.
As I look back over those days and those choices, I realize that there was little structure in my upbringing. We were not raised with a laundry list of values. No church, except on Easter. No rules or guiding principles, except one. In our family, the cardinal sin was lying. That was about it. We could have done worse than having truth as our guidepost.
My older sisters had more structure than the rest of us – they were the first ones out of the gate – and they were cute and popular. Understandably , they were kept on a short leash. When I reached my teens, there was no leash for me. I was popular, but not like my sisters. They looked good in their bathing suits as they lounged at the Rivera Club. They and their friends had a ritual of sorts when at the pool. They would get in the water and swim for a little while, then get out and put Dippity Do and lemon juice in their hair. This was followed by wrapping their hair in huge rollers. Once it was dry, they took the rollers out, brushed their hair and jumped back in the water. This was repeated several times on our outings, with a pack of boys watching their every move.
They also went out on dates. I was obsessed with their boyfriends and would go to the window in our shared bedroom to see if they got kissed at the doorstep. They dated twins for a while. I thought that was where the term “double date” originated. I wanted to be just like them when I became a teenager, not understanding that wasn’t in the cards for me. I had good hair then, but I certainly did not look good in a bathing suit. I had two official dates in high school with two different guys. Both boys had bathed in Skin So Soft prior to picking me up. My mom sold Avon in those days and I knew that smell! No goodnight kisses were even attempted on my doorstep. I could never stand the smell of Skin So Soft again.
No, my teenage years were not like my sisters, but they were great. I read a lot of books, kept a journal, had a ton of friends and danced every chance I got. After college, I started growing my career instead of a family. My son wasn’t born until I was nearly 40. Now I am several days from retirement and two months from being a grandma.
24, 546 days. Not much I would change – except for the time I have wasted not feeling good enough, pretty enough, or skinny enough. Perspective and age change everything. I find myself steeped in gratitude for what I do have, my old longings are fading away. Telling the truth is still the value that endures for me – probably why I detest 45 so much. My sisters have had good lives, but I would not trade mine for theirs.
I hope when I write on my whiteboard for the last time I will add, “It’s a good day to die, it’s a good day to fly” underneath the final tally.
Sherri Walker for the Poplar Grove Muse