I’m around for my 90th birthday party?
Just in case I may not make it, as Mama has done so graciously, and without so many of the tell-tale signs of aging that usually attend longevity, I chose this last weekend at her party to celebrate as I would if this were my 90th: I ate a fried oysters po boy slathered with fattening remoulade sauce and had an ice cream cone for dessert.
Such artery-clogging, heart-stopping dietary choices could work against the odds of reaching number 90; but regarded another way, the blood-pressure-reducing levity of spirited celebration could counter the risky food effects to aid and abet the process of healthy aging.
One way or the other, September 15—-Mama’s birthday—-was a day fit to celebrate. And so we did. When life, which in the context of eternity is short anyway, affords us a happy occasion to celebrate, we must “gather the rosebuds [and fried oysters and ice cream cones] while [we] may.”