Like many things in life, the thought often is better than the reality. I was pondering an appropriate way to commemorate reaching age 60--a bungee jump, a Death Valley trip, a visit to a remote national park overseas, walking through a string of antique shops, maybe just walking a beach shoreline.
I did none of that. That's for 61. Or later.
Also, it was friggin freezing outside. My son and daughter-in-law treated me to dinner at a French restaurant in Alexandria, Va. -- profiteroles instead of birthday cake. Yum. (On my 50th birthday, I flitted from tapas bar to tapas bar in Madrid, where I learned that even tiny glasses of beer and wine with garlicky shrimp and patatas can get you tipsy.)
The problem with being 60 is that I suppose I should start a bucket list, but when I learned that it is trendy or trending or whatinhell you call it, I decided to be no part of it.
Being 60 means listening to the beat of my own drum, dissonant as it may be. Here goes.
This is me getting lost somewhere. Call me the Anti-Fashionista. It is truly hard to believe that I lived in Paris for four years and once wore tiny black skirts and velvet red high heels.