Last week, I celebrated my birthday. I’ll be honest, it hit me hard, although I’m excited, and elated to make it to sixty-five. I’m eligible to receive government benefits. I can ask for a senior’s discount (I have asked before). I’m healthy, and of the realization not everyone reaches this age. Therefore, it’s something to celebrate and be grateful for.
When I was younger than my thirties, I thought those who reached sixty-five were old. Not only did they look elderly with their grey hair and wrinkled skin, but they moved as if everything ached.
Today, sixty-five is considered middle-aged. ** In fact, 60 — even 65 (or, maybe more) — can be considered “middle-aged,” according to population experts at the International Institute for Applied Systems Analysis (IIAS) in Austria and Stony Brook University in New York.
Now I’m ‘a senior and pensioner’ (the list of labels is unlimited), I feel sixty-five is the new fifty (okay, maybe fifty-five). I cover up my grey, and there are lotions and potions to mask and prevent wrinkles. Movement is key to feeling great. I enjoy a few walks every day—it helps having a dog, and time at the pool/fitness center.
It’s what I feel inside, which matters. The need to find the get-up-and-go to tackle the challenges affecting people my age is important. I remember previous experiences and fun times like yesterday. Though I may wish to ‘do’ wild things again, the body says no, but the mind always appreciates a trip down memory lane with exhilaration.
** https://www.today.com/health/60-really-new-50-scientists-say-t15411
I wrote the following story as ‘autofiction’, a combination of autobiography and fiction. Autofiction is when an author writes details of their life blended with fictional information, characters, and events. (One example, is something that happened in childhood, but the event is easier turned into a story, as some details involved are sketchy and limited in the author’s mind.)
The Birthday Party
By Patricia L. Atchison
(©2022 All Rights Reserved)
Sasha stood at the living room window, squinting against the afternoon sunshine, waiting for her friends to come to her eighth-birthday party. She fiddled with the ribbons on her new dress and scuffed her patent leather shoes against the baseboard. One finger found its way between her teeth, and she chewed on her nail.
With one last glance down the street, Sasha gave up her post, and skipped through the kitchen to the dining room, where eight place settings sat on the table. She smiled at one of the paper plates, and traced the princess’s tiara, and her full pink dress—almost the same color as Sasha’s. She eyed the matching place cards, party hats, and napkins Mom had let her pick out yesterday. The buzz of the mix master brought her head away from peeking in the bags of party favours. She skidded into the kitchen, coming to a halt beside the counter.
“Are you excited, Honey?” Grandma unhooked the wire whip beater from the mixer and banged it against the side of the bowl.
Sasha nodded her head up and down, making her tight ringlets bounce against her neck. Grandma handed her the beater to lick off the whipped cream.
“No, thanks.” Sasha scrunched her nose at the white sweetness, thinking about how the kids would laugh at her if she made a mess down the front of her dress. She tilted her neck and looked at the wall clock above the sink.
“Your friends should come any minute now,” said Grandma.
Sasha sure hoped so, wondering why they were taking so long.
Mom lifted her head up from reading a recipe book. “Yes, they should. We put 2:00 on the invitations. I guess some parents like to arrive at the last minute.” She tightened Sasha’s barrette. “Go have a look again, see if anyone’s driven up.”
In the living room, Sasha placed her palms against the window, even though Mom had told her before not to smudge the glass with fingerprints. She dropped her hands and looked up and down the street, but no cars came.
Sasha pushed the footstool close to the window and plunked down on it. She adjusted her dress lady-like, the way Mom showed her, so it wouldn’t get all wrinkled. Sasha quieted, listening to Grandma and Mom talking in the kitchen, but still couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Where are my friends? They should be here by now.
She jumped when Mom stepped beside her. “It’s way past the time for the party to start. No one has even called to say their kids can’t come. You gave out all the invites—didn’t you?”
Sasha’s ringlets bobbed as she nodded, yes. She remembered clutching the invitations all the way to school, making sure not to drop any, and handing them out to her friends in the hall before the bell rang.
“Did you say anything to make the kids mad at you?” Mom squeezed Sasha’s shoulder.
“No!” Her lip quivered. She scrambled up, ran into the kitchen, and smashed against Grandma’s apron, folding her arms around Grandma’s waist.
“I’ll make some phone calls,” she said, hugging Sasha tight. “We’ll have your party. Don’t you fret. Go have a lie down while we get organized.”
In her bedroom, Sasha laid on the bed, thinking about what Mom said. Sasha tried to remember what happened at school last week, but there was nothing she said to the girls that was bad.
Nothing at all.
A knock at the door woke up Sasha. She blinked at Grandma when she opened the door.
“Come on, let’s have your party.”
Sasha heard a lot of voices circling around the dining room. When she came around the corner, everyone yelled, “Happy Birthday!”
She smiled at her family, accepting hugs and kisses from Aunt Jody and Uncle Rob. Aunt Celina bounced Cousin Jacob on her lap and called Sasha over to give her a squeeze and a present.
After jumbo hot dogs, seasoned potato chips, and root beer pop, the chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream stuffed Sasha’s tummy to overflowing. She said goodbye to everyone and thanked them for her gifts and coming to her party.
Sasha slipped under the covers at bedtime. She reached for her new fashion doll, setting it on her chest. She stared at it a moment or two, then whispered, “What did I do, to make the kids not want to come to my birthday party?”
~The End