Age is Just a Number

This is what 95 looks like!

Yesterday I spoke with my oldest friend, literally: Gloria is 95 and I have known her since my first day on Earth. My mother's best friend since the two of them were teens, she lived next door to us for much of my childhood and became my second mother. After the death of my birth mother in 1981 (at sixty-two), Gloria moved up into the top slot, becoming the only mother I have.

She is simply extraordinary. She lives alone and drives herself everywhere, like to the gym each morning to work out for an hour on the machines. She has an active social life, meeting with friends to play games like Bingo and Mahjong. She was always a great cook and still dabbles in the kitchen. Yes, she has a few aches and pains, she admitted, but "that's to be expected when you start to get older," which is how she currently sees herself in the grand scheme of life.

What sets her apart from some whiners many years younger --  like me for example -- is her attitude. She is upbeat and always has been. Despite losing her husband, the true love of her life and father of her two children, when she was just fifty years old, Gloria has continued to squeeze the most out of each day. She's had some health issues, one which required serious heart surgery, but her natural ebullience brought about a speedy recovery each time.

Gloria was born in Brooklyn, moved to Long Island, returned to Manhattan, then ventured to Florida and finally settled in Phoenix. She likes warm weather since she's a golfer and likes to get out on the green as much as possible. When I wake up each morning all stiff and achy, groaning as I make my way down the stairs to feed the cat, I chalk it up to my age; after all, I am sixty-nine! Then I think of Gloria, take a big swig of fish oil, and quit my complaining.