Sixty-five doesn’t feel any different than sixty-four. Hmm. I’m now officially a senior citizen. What kind of old woman do I want to be? The stooped lumbering kind who has weekly appointments at the doctor’s office and goes on about every ache and ailment? The eccentric who talks the ears off strangers? Or the enthusiastic smiling sort who enjoys trying new things? A no-brainer, right? Here’s what I’m doing at sixty-five:

I’ve changed my purse mojo. I’ve always stayed away from large purses, choosing to carry small cross-body bags that only have room for cash, credit cards, and a phone. I figured a lightweight purse would be better if I needed to make a quick get-away from. . . whatever. But lately I’ve become impatient with the sparsity of personal items. I want easy and constant access to my reading glasses and sunglasses. I want a mirror and a comb, hand lotion, a tissue packet, and lip balm. So I go to a local department store, buy a larger purse, take it home and hand it to David, saying, “This is the exceptional gift you got me for my birthday. I love it. Thank you.” On the designated morning, he hands it to me and, as though I’ve never seen it before, says, “They had a huge selection and it was a difficult decision, but I think this is the one you would have chosen. Happy Birthday.”

I’ve added an activity. Pickleball, AKA tennis for old people. A friend suggests we attend a lesson; and I know I need more exercise, so I go. Though I’m clumsy and prone to falling, I’m surprised by how much I enjoy the movement and the sweating. It’s a popular sport. There are leagues and tournaments. All day every day, pickleballers are always playing somewhere in the area. It doesn’t matter if I’m not good enough to compete on a ladder because I’m having fun and meeting new people and, as long as we focus on the game and keep things superficial, we all get along. The reason I say that about being superficial is because fanatical belief in conspiracy theories abounds in this part of Texas, and one of the most well-liked local pickleballers is a man I once brought up in a derogatory way in a blog posting—the one about the guy who, over dinner at a mutual friend’s house, claimed to “know for a fact” that Michelle Obama was a hermaphrodite and that Obama’s daughters were paid actors, not Barak and Michelle’s kids at all. I assumed that he didn’t know about the scathing blog, but it turns out I was wrong. So, as often happens, I’ve managed to create friction where there should be peace. As pertains to my new diversion, I intend to keep my head down so I don’t run into him or his wife.

Also, I’m investing a bit of time and money in my sixty-something appearance. For the last couple of years my hair guru has been encouraging me to grow my hair out. She didn’t approve of the shorter style, and in general seemed to feel that if it were longer I’d have more choices. Several months ago I decided to take her advice, thinking, well, it’s only hair, and it won’t hurt to try it her way. Sadly, it’s become a stringy mess that I hate with astonishing intensity. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all this crappy fluff in front of my ears. I hate the way the pointy ends poke my eyes and tickle my cheeks. So tomorrow I’m getting it cut and high-lighted. This isn’t so much making a change as it is going back to the way I like myself most.

Another appearance-related endeavor is that I’m going to Botox a few wrinkles—the downward slashes between my eyebrows, a couple of crinkled pouches at the corners of my eyes. I don’t think I’ll do anything about the forehead wrinkles, though. I’ve had my thought lines since I was a child. Seriously, there they are, in my fifth-grade picture, caused by brows raised in constant surprise; and here my eyebrows still are, with me at sixty-five, lifted in amazement at the things that go on in the world. So yes, Botox: a way to postpone the inevitable for just a while.

An unpleasant result of turning sixty-five is that it involves going through the social security bureaucracy, getting signed up for Medicare, changing my meds to suit their rules. How tedious. While the other changes I’m making are positive, the changes caused by Medicare are disturbing in that the two types of eyedrops I’m prescribed cost over forty-five hundred dollars every quarter. I used to meet the deductible in the first three months and the insurance paid for the rest of the year; but now, in this topsy-turvy shift, Medicare meets their self-determined deductible in the first quarter and then I pay for the rest of the year. So my cost almost triples and that sucks.

Ending on a note of happiness—my most wonderful recent biggie is that I’ve become a grandmother to an adorable baby, Clementine. If it weren’t for the inconvenient periodic requirement for passport renewal, I would’ve hopped over to London immediately to meet her. But I’m receiving daily photos and videos and the occasional facetime chat, and it’s fun to track the baby’s growth and progress, even if it’s from a distance. Sam, Julia, and the baby are traveling here for Thanksgiving, which promises to be quite a get-together, as the extended family also wants to welcome the new addition. In conclusion, Clementine is precious and I’m happy for my son and his wife, because raising a child adds a glorious, painful, and complex sense of accountability that expands one’s soul and can be found in no other endeavor.

Anyway, Happy Birthday, me!

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