Counting

My husband and our friend, Jon Shorr, conspired to contact some of my favorite authors to request that they write me birthday greetings on the event of my 60th birthday. The one who did, and who is my favorite author notwithstanding her reply to Jon's request, is Mary Doria Russell. She of Thread of Grace and Dreamers of the Day and Children of God. She wrote this witty, warm note noting that I was preceding her by a year into our 7th decade. Seventh decade, I thought. Seventh? She's 70 and she thinks I'm 71? I scrambled feeling a teeny tiny gnawing sense of dread that I'd blithely written six decades in one of my birthday musings. Math has never been a strong suit. A visual learner, I actually made a time line this morning and misnumbered even that before I finally grasped that by the time I was 20 I had lived a decade and on it goes. So Mary Doria Russell, my favorite author and now math instructor, is 59 and I'm 60, preceding her by a year into our 7th decade. Right?
Here's her note: (The subject line read: Happy Birthday you old bat)

Dear Ms. Felt,
Your friend Jon Schorr was rude enough to reveal that you are turning sixty on Monday, and hilarious enough to believe that you would enjoy being reminded of the event by an author whose work you enjoyed.
You are preceding me into our 7th decade by a year. Last week my husband and I replaced our ten-year-old car. Don realized that, barring accident, we'll be driving this new one when we turn 70, which is also the year of our 50th anniversary.
We have been walking around in a slight daze since that moment of existential shock.
Most of the time, I love being who I am now, and wouldn't turn the clock back even ten minutes. On the other hand, we're more attuned than ever to the dismaying aspects of old age. Don's mother is 94, and rather pleasantly demented. Recently, she picked up a piece of breakfast toast, gazed at it for countable seconds, and asked, "Now, what do you suppose this is?"
"Toast, Mom. You eat it," Don said.
And I thought, Shoot me. Please, shoot me.
Best wishes for happy returns that you remain sharp enough to appreciate
-- from a fellow boomer,
Mary Doria Russell