So last weekend I did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I went for a motorcycle ride with my husband. We used to ride pretty often; but that was years ago. Way back when we first started dating. It’s different these days. Let’s just say there are usually at least one or two girls ahead of me in line.
But last Sunday was my turn. Once on the open road, Curt cranked up the radio and sang along to a lovely, spiritually uplifting song. (Just kidding.) It was Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Freebird. Curt does have a nice voice - but don't tell him I said so.
I used to hear his same voice from the back of his motorcycle in my early twenties. I’d wrap my arms around his slender waist and away we’d go.
Those were the days …
Free Bird rattled on (that’s a very long song, you know!) and suddenly, I kind of felt like that twenty-something-year-old. Back when there were no house payments. No carpooling with the minivan. No “What’s for supper?” and no “Where’s my gym clothes?”
For just a moment, I almost forgot I was forty. (Okay, I’m forty-something, but who’s counting?)
Anyway, it was just me, the open road and the guy I loved.
Sure, my guy’s hair was a little gray. And when I put my arms around him, he didn’t feel like a skinny kid anymore.
But me and this guy, we had a history. Twenty years of memories. Good and bad. Like graduating from college and getting jobs and having babies and climbing corporate ladders and aging parents and raising teenagers …
And as we returned back home I realized something. I was grateful for all of it.
But can I be honest? I was also grateful, that if only for a while, I forgot I was forty.