When you've only got 100 years to live...

She didn't want to go and I couldn't blame her, I've always hated piano recitals too. But she went anyway and I thought I'd bust with pride as I sat staring at the back of her head, waiting for her turn to perform.
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During these moments of anticipation I wanted so badly for her to feel the joy of her journey. I wanted her to love every minute of her life. The good and the bad, the fun and the scary, the mistakes and the triumphs, I wanted her to relish in them all.
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She's not just alive, she's LIVING. She's going, doing and feeling and that's what it's all about. Joy in the journey, that's what I want. I want to be present and aware for each moment of my life. I want to dance when I feel like dancing, I want to sing at the top of my voice (because no one cares what I sound like anyway) I want to soak up every experience and smile because I'm living, REALLY living.
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I want to keep trying and I want to find as much joy in the trying as I do in the succeeding. I want to be as sharp and spectacular as Marlee's elderly piano teacher someday, living to the fullest until the very end. And I want to be like two of her fellow students, women like me, who are still developing their talents and memorizing their songs (that's got to be good for keeping the mind young).
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In fact I want that so much that I'm adding a goal to my "Fabulous by Forty" list. I'm going to memorize a piano piece before my birthday and then I'm going to play it, for people (although I don't rightly know who), either on or soon after my big day.
Yes I am.
I'm done playing life's silly games. I may not be perfect but I'm alive gosh dang it, I'm alive.
And I like it.
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P.S. For those of you who asked about my previous post...
I told my kids that it was a curling iron burn. I know I shouldn't have lied but when Marlee cornered me and hissed under her breath, "Mom what is on your neck?" I panicked. It was seriously much worse than being caught by my father, so I used the same line that had worked on him many (many) years before, the good old curling iron burn. But sadly, when they read my blog I will be so busted (do you know how awkward it is to be busted by your own children) so not good.