I didn’t write at all last week. Nope not one word. I didn’t write because I find it difficult to write without hands and my hands were full of these handsome nephews of mine.
I also didn’t go to the Depeche Mode concert with my sister last week. I told her I wanted to go, she bought the tickets, then–remembering my commitment to watch the precious BBs–I backed out, sending my daughter Paige in my stead.
Paige loved the concert and had fun picturing me watching Depeche Mode back in the 80’s when I and they were young. And when she reminded me of some of their songs that I hadn’t listened to in years I had fun picturing me back there too.
Listening to their music transported me back to a time of concerts and clubs, freely dancing into the early morning hours, wearing my perfect 80’s outfits and Aqua-Net hair. It was good. So good that I heard my younger self begin to whisper, “Aren’t you envious of me? Don’t you wish you could go back?”
And for a moment I thought that maybe I did feel a touch of longing and envy for what had been. Until I remembered the words spoken by Morrie Schwartz, from “Tuesdays With Morrie”, when author Mitch Albom asked him a similar question saying, “You know we live in a culture that worships youth. How do you keep from envying me my youth?” To which Morrie brilliantly replied,
“Age is not a competition. Inside me is every age I’ve ever been, 10-year=old, 20-year-old, 37, like you. But also a 50-, 60-, 78-year-old man. So why should I be envious of where you are? I’ve already been where you are. You should be envious of me. I’ve got 40 years on you.”
Hearing Morrie’s words I’m able to tell my young self that we are not in a competition with one another. I don’t have to be envious of those days because I already lived them. I can close my eyes and remember being a PYT on the dance floor but along with that I also know what it is to be a newlywed and a woman who has been married for 27 years. I’ve been a mother with babies, and a mother who is now experiencing the joy of watching those babies grow into the most extraordinary adults. I have struggled, I have thrived and I have lived. Really lived. I have 30 years on my young, dancing self. 30 years of wonderful.
And with my 30 years of wonderful I look to those who have a few extra decades on me and wonder, with quiet anticipation, about the secret they seem to hold just behind their smiles. It’s a secret that cannot be shared, a secret that must be earned. And while I may have not yet earned it, I think I can feel the corners of my own mouth turning up–ever so slightly–even now.