A preordained expiration date

A SHARED SLICE

- RENÉE RANCHAN

It, definitely, is not my imagination, or what some may say, all in my precious head, perhaps even a case of paranoia settling in, brought in by what else, but having a stack of years to look back upon, with more piling up!

Goodness, where went the time, you, sighingly, want to know...school, college, university did not seem archival history, seemed close enough for your outstretched hands to touch...then how is it that there is an effortlessly growing mindset that lays down the diktat—carved in stone—that, hit 40-ish something, and the downward journey commences! (So, what if the journey is endless!) Then the 50s come hurtling in your direction and you've "hit half a century", so you are, with a dismissive hand enlightened... (Wait till you make it to the "wrong side" of 50—days after your 55th birthday and the vultures overhead, not in your head, but actually whirring in judgement!) And then you collide, quite fatally, once the birthday cake is insufficient to accommodate 60 candles! So, whyever go through the trouble (the motions?!) of scouring high and low for a cake with sufficient girth to lodge far too many candles! Plus, what's the fuss about throwing a party with a hoarding at the gate, bugling that you had turned 60 and so the big bash! It, definitely, is not about making a debut, a coming-out party, so why the hullaballoo?! 70s gets worse—if there is room for such a possibility—and you are viewed both sympathetically and exasperatedly. How is it presumed that you need an escort, come party-day, to head to the loo, to climb up or down a staircase, or to press the right floor in an elevator...