The car races along the patent leather- like streets as the mellow Jazz tunes waft from the radio.  I hug the door, staring straight ahead. Earlier I had been shocked to hear a Beatles tune played as part of the play list on the “Cool Jazz” station we have tuned in.

We are headed to a party; some friends are celebrating forty years of marriage. An amazing milestone!

I try to remember us forty years ago—young, and attractive. I open the vanity mirror on the back of the visor, flipping the light on  as my husband zips along, cursing the other drivers who, according to him, are all idiots. I pull a pinch of skin on my jaw line, smoothing out the fine lines and wrinkles that have made their home along my mouth. “What do ya’ think? Would I look better with a face lift?” I ask, knowing fully well I would never subject myself to that invasion.

I had resolved a few years back when I stopped coloring my hair to its more youthful deep sable color, to age gracefully. Age gracefully, h-m-m, I wonder, does that have to mean looking old? I look again in the small mirror. Not too bad—yet!

I remember when I was in my early twenties, when my generation, the legendary Baby Boomers, first began to flex their muscles, at Woodstock, at peace rallies, pushing our free love, anything goes philosophy to the forefront. For better or for worse, we have changed society. I recall recent conversations with my daughter discussing how young women now know so little of the struggle for Women’s Rights.

“Do you remember Ruth Anne, the teacher I was friends with back home? You know it weird to think that she was discouraged from being a doctor by her professors at the college. That wouldn’t happen now,” I say.

“And your point is?”

“Well, it’s just strange to realize how much everything has changed since we were young.”

The rain has let up as we pull up to the multi-storied hotel. I wonder why our friends always want to go to buffet restaurants, as if they have to get their money’s worth by having more food to choose from than can possibly be sampled. What’s next, Early Bird Specials?

I dread stepping down onto the pavement, knowing that my knee is so unpredictable. Will it hold out this time, I wonder, as I gingerly emerge from the car. My knee has decided to act normal today. Hooray!

The gleamimg glass revolving door  leads to a glittery lobby. We enter the fairy land this hotel has created for the convention guests it caters to. Ahead of us is a marble lobby, decorated with expensive Oriental carpets, chairs upholstered in mauve and pink, with asymmetrically curved backs. To the right of the smoky black mirrored piano bar is a large tropical themed pool.

 I have no desire to stay here for a romantic weekend like I might have when I was younger. And as far as paying to go to a resort, well now I live in a resort—an active adult community. We spend our days trying to choose from an array of activities and our evenings going to dinner with friends. I live in a paradise, one without kids, where I can go to a quiet restaurant, and swim in pools sans babies and splashing ten year olds. And although I enjoy my adult oriented life, I have to admit that romance now is a lot different than it was years ago. Now it’s romantic if it doesn’t involve any little pills and special lotions.

We find our friends, and exchanging hugs and quick kisses on the cheek, congratulate Cathy and Bob on their aniversary. Jokes are made about how difficult marriage is— but how wonderful it is to have a shared history, companionship, and support as we age.

Age! Yikes!

A young couple is in the restaurant, trying to convince their squirmy two-year old to sit and enjoy her food. Each parent takes a turn, trying to find something to amuse their young child, to no avail. I look at the parents, their smooth unlined faces beautiful the way young people are—and I feel a pang of jealousy. The image of a handsome fully -accredited plastic surgeon wielding his scalpel above me as I drift off to sleep pops into my head.

I turn to my husband. “How do I look?”I ask.

“Very nice, is that a new outfit?” he replies. Well, I’ll have to be content with that; it’s the most I’ll get out of him.

Eventually the thirty-something mom picks up her fussy baby, and struggles to leave the restaurant gracefully. The dad packs up the food they couldn’t eat, pays the bill, and hurries to the door.

Yeah, youth. Looks like fun on TV, but the reality can be very different.

Later as we leave the hotel, I turn to look at my husband.

We have shared a lifetime together, all the anger, pain, hurt, joy, happiness, and success that are the hallmarks of a marriage. He pulls the car out into the traffic, just as the sunset blazes across the sky, filling the horizon with lavender, pink and gold.

A song drifts out of the radio, a familiar tune, “love is lovelier….love, like youth is wasted on the young.” I hum along, as I smile a little crinkled smile.