There are a few things I like about growing older. The disappearance of menses is a real plus, although the journey to its end is not without its detours and trip wires. Also, I find myself less and less concerned with what people might think. Even forgetfulness can be a plus: others don't take offense when you can't remember names, faces, birthdays because they just assume you are growing senile.
I find myself drawn to reading memoirs, some of which provide vivid detail of the author's childhood. For a while, I wondered how they could recall so much, but now I know. While my short term memory is becoming a sieve, my distant past is marching to the forefront of my consciousness.
The recent election raised two such memories. The first occurred the summer between high school and college. The fellow I was dating aspired to become the first Jewish President of the United States. (He abandoned that plan about a year later.) We used to joke about how I would be the First Lady and give tours of the White House in blue jeans. This was back when only dirty hippies wore blue jeans. I was no dirty hippie; I was just so ahead of my time.
The other memory involved a fellow college student. I was in G's dorm room. G had a framed picture of Jesus on the wall above his bed (G was destined to become a minister) and a framed photograph of Martin Luther King, Jr. (G was - and still is, to my knowledge - black). There was also an empty frame. I asked him about it, and G said it was for the one who was to come next, implying that he might be that person. Now I am wondering if he has filled that frame with Obama.
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