Counting Candles

Let me start by saying that I love my podiatrist.  Oh geez!  I have a podiatrist.  Humility aside, he is a great guy.  And while reading his Kona Triathlon bio as I sat in the waiting room, I figured he would get it.  He was a junkie too.  So after an afternoon in x-rays and offices, I thought I was ready for anything.  Except this… “You realize, Else, you are forty-one”.

I am not good with numbers.   I would much rather play a game of Scrabble over Suduko.  I will even admit I have never successfully balanced a checkbook or been able to play Blackjack at a casino without using my fingers.  So when my podiatrist said my age aloud like that, I guess I didn’t really realize it.

You see, I just spent the day at my grandmother’s ninety fifth birthday.  I am sure you would envision a feeble, hunched lady with slowly slipping eyeglasses.  Think again.  My grandmother is a vision of grace and class.  She is dainty, charming, drives a Dodge charger and has a boyfriend ten years her junior.  Oh dear God! Is my grandmother a cougar?  Nevertheless, felines aside, she defies age and boundaries.  She is sharp and witty, full of humor and intuition.  And that woman can read me from across the room.  So, I am guessing she is not a numbers person either.

My grandmother and I share a special relationship.  She lost her husband far too early in life.  During that time, while she still lived in her Danish homeland, I would spend my entire summers with her.  My mother would put me on a plane, solo, and send me to Denmark.  This started at age five and continued through high school.  Funny to picture a five-year-old flying trans-Atlantic to Europe, but that is what we did.  And the memories we created were as colorful as I can recall.  So, she often tells me, as she did today on her birthday, that I saved her.  This little child so open for her love, saved her.  What a warm thought for me to hold.

And today, my grandmother saved me.  She saw me walk in with my cloddy boot on my fractured foot.  Again, she read me instantly and knew the words to say.  She told me that I would make it through.  The time would pass quick (and this is coming from someone who has been on this Earth for ninety-five years), and I would be stronger for it.  She said I may even discover something new about myself along the way.  And I realized that if she can make it through her climbing years with such grace and understanding, surely I can waddle through the next few weeks with a bit of grace too.

So yes, I am forty-one.  A happy, joyful, overly sensitive, frightfully habitual, and number-fearing forty-one-year-old with a fractured foot, a loving grandmother, a thorough podiatrist, and a beautiful journey ahead.  Happy birthday.