My mother has always been a numbers gal, with a love for the art of figuring. She is a mathematician at heart. Yet, when it comes to her age, she has never paid much attention to it. She always told me age was nothing more than a number, and should never be a state of mind.
As she grew older, she would often have people ask her how it felt to be a certain age. She always responded, “Well, I have never been this age before either. Ask me next year and I will let you know.”
My mother is now 93-and-a-half years young. And considering how long she has lived on this earth, she is in relatively good physical and mental health. She has the arthritis which makes it harder for her to move around now and a few other minor ailments. Plus she suffers from dementia. But her spirit remains strong and her heart is happy.
My paternal grandmother lived to 89 years. And her mother lived to 101 years. This is in stark contrast to a close family friend who passed away in her early 70s. And one of my mother’s oldest and dearest friends who passed away a few months ago at the age of 77 years. Or one of my oldest and dearest friend’s mother, who passed away recently in her mid-80s.
Which proves the hypothesis there is no magic number. Every person is different. Every situation is different. There is no crystal ball to gaze into. No tea leaves to read. No voice booming from the sky.
And rather than seeking the magic in a number, I’d rather embrace the magic I see shining within the bright blue eyes of my mother.