65

I'm sixty-five now. I keep having to repeat that. Soon I will believe it. On my actual birthday, I taught a class to people over fifty (mostly over seventy) about the music of the British invasion of the Sixties. This week was 1968. I played music and videos from The Beatles, "Hey Jude" and The Beatles (aka "The White Album"). I played The Rolling Stones singing "Jumpin' Jack Flash" and some excerpts from Beggars Banquet. I lost them with a video of Cream playing "White Room" and excerpts from Wheels of Fire. A woman I'm friendly with raised her hand and asked "Why are we listening to this noise?"

I tried to explain, as I did to family and sometimes friends in 1968, "This isn't 'Yummy, Yummy, Yummy I've Got Love In My Tummy.' It's not aimed at ten-year-old girls like most Top 40 music. You have to listen more intently. It might take time to get used to it." So I guess I haven't learned anything in the last forty-seven years. I got the same blank look I got in 1968. Someone in the class brought cookies because they knew it was my birthday.

I had lunch at Subway with a seventy-five year old man in the class. He grew up in New York, and although not Jewish, he knew lots of Jews then and even now in Morgantown. His wife died some time ago, and he asked me "Are there available women at your temple?" I mentioned two widows in their sixties who might be available. "I know them. I don't want anyone like that. Look at me. I'm in great shape for my age." (He's not.) " Isn't there anyone younger?"

At that point, I silently thanked God for sending me Joe, gray-haired, balding (not as bald as I am) and only seven years younger than I am. Old enough that we have things to talk about, and young enough to be my "young man."

There was a class about Yiddish theater with a movie in the afternoon, then I ran some errands and went home to crash. Tappuz the cat slept with me.

Joe thought we should go someplace fancy for dinner. We did, although I wasn't hungry after all the cookies, and I was tired. There was one other occupied table with an older couple and a young woman. I didn't know them. At least that's what I thought, but the older woman said "Hi, Barry. Happy birthday!" I couldn't place her, but it turns out she is in my class. She couldn't come that day. I should have remembered her.

Some of the food was good. My entrée was just average. Everything was expensive. I couldn't wait to leave. I'm always glad to go out, but I was tired and not feeling that well. I was reminded of my mother insisting we go out someplace fancy for my twenty-first birthday. I was a hippie college student then, a senior, and seriously depressed. Depressed enough that I wouldn't go to a shrink because I was afraid they would hospitalize me. The thought of getting dressed up enough to go to a nice restaurant sent my stomach into spasms. I hadn't eaten much that day, and I was in pain. I barely got through dinner then. An allergist years later explained that my stomach ailments, always around my birthday, were a seasonal allergy. Now you tell me.

I look at now and I have to do the Jewish thing. I have to be grateful for all the gifts in my life. I have a handsome, good, hard-working man at home who loves me. The times have changed enough that I can thank the waiter for not asking if we want separate checks and he'll answer "I'm young, but I'm not that young." I'll introduce my husband to a male-female couple, and they'll say to him "We've heard so much about you from members of your congregation. They just love you." As of two weeks ago, the state accepts our marriage. Most of the people aren't happy about it, but we've already changed people's minds about same-gender marriage, even here.

I have a body that works, with a little pharmaceutical help. I've dodged polio, teenage drivers, Vietnam and AIDS. I survived a heart attack, and done many dangerous things I hope no one finds out about. I'm still here. Sounds like a Sondheim song :" I've lived through George and George W., Nixon-Agnew. " I should leave lyric writing to Mr. Sondheim.

I understand mortality. I'm four years younger than my father when he died, and ten years younger than my mother. I get it. Still, I look in the mirror and say "Not bad." I remember and study the past, live in the present, and still have plans for the future. Joe is throwing me a dinner and dance party this weekend.