Happy Birthday, Sara

Last week, I celebrated a birthday—one that the number suggests officially makes me an old woman—seventy-eight years. What I feel on the inside doesn’t reflect what I’ve thought in the past the age of seventy-eight years means. ‘What does 78 look like?,’ I asked myself Thursday morning, August 28. ‘Look in the mirror,’ an inner voice responded. Maybe. But I’m always hoping that the response I’ll get when someone askes me how old I am, will be ‘OMG! you look so much younger.’ My response to that has always been “Well, I got my mother’s good genes. She also never looked her age as she got older.”

But, according to Eric Topol of the Washington Post (May 21, 2025) who spent six years sequencing the genomes of 1400 people 80 years of age and older, they shared very few, if any, genetic similarities.

The article goes on to share what ‘Super Agers’ do to maintain good health. That is not what spoke to me.

I have credited my good health and the fact that I don’t look my age to my mother. That through some amazing luck of the draw and, despite drug and alcohol abuse in the first half of my life; extremely poor eating habits which I have labeled food addiction andpoor self-esteem, that I might be responsible for where I am today. I am the one who, through those years, kept trying to exercise, eat right, and continue taking courses/learn new things. I didn’t know I had addiction issues. I thought I was weak. I look back and am amazed that I continued to fight a losing battle with all the suggestions Topol puts forward that lead to ‘Super Aging.’

When my perseverance landed me on the doorstep of 12 Step programs for alcohol and food, I fought the solutions with the same uninformed gusto that I’d fought the problems. Till I had no strength to fight anymore. I waved the proverbial white flag. In putting down, letting go, perhaps acceptance is the better word, of my addictive life style, I gave myself a better than fighting chance to stick to all the suggestions for a healthy lifestyle. 

It even turns out that my aptitude towards doing nothing, taking naps, reading on the couch, taking days where I don’t get out of my PJs and putter in my apartment, is now considered healthy.

It’s true that I’ve had surgeries: right hip replacement (2017); cataract surgeries (2024); carpal tunnel surgeries on both wrists (2024, 2025); and probably another hip replacement this coming winter. As I tell my friends, I’m like the Velveteen Rabbit—coming apart at the seams and need to be sewn back up—but my internal organs are in fine shape.

It has taken me eight years to celebrate my 70s. I couldn’t do it when I was 70. I was too undone by the number. I celebrated turning 70 on my 71st birthday. I had a picnic on my 74th or 75th. I got distracted by who didn’t come than on the fact I had lived longer than 1/4 of my High School graduating class.

This year, I felt the need to celebrate. Yes, my age, but also that I have successfully integrated and become a valued member of the exPat community here in Paris where I moved twelve years ago at the age of sixty-six; that I have the apartment of my dreams; that I am a published author; that I’m healthy and doing my best to learn how to age wisely.

I invited a number of women who are special to me to come to a sit down dinner. One of those friends said, “if you really want to enjoy your party, have it catered. Let someone else do the work.” Me? Pay someone else to make my life easier when I could do it myself? I made the wise decision to not listen to my inner voices that have too often proved untrustworthy and followed her advice. I chose the menu (salmon and roasted vegetables). I decorated my table with red and white checked napkins and tablecloth. I picked the time to eat: 7:30pm. Then I sat back and bathed in the connections, the laughter, the camaraderie and, of course, some Sara roasting. One friend brought little bottles of bubble solution and before the fruit and cheese dessert, we all stood on my small terrace and blew bubbles into the darkening Paris sky.

Then, when we were all seated again, out came a piece of melon with a porcelain birthday cake and lit candle. I blew out my candle and felt well fêted.

Ever on the academic calendar, I’m now welcoming in a new year. Here in Paris, it’s La Rentrée when everyone returns from wherever they’ve been during the summer. Children started school this week, the Senior Sports program starts up on the 15th. I’m signed up for Pilates and Tai Chi. My six month sabbatical from this Substack is over.

Wecome to a new year of Out My Window. Nine years ago, I started this as a blog, as a letter to all my distant friends. I migrated over to Substack three and a half years ago. I will be terminating my Word Press connection by the end of 2025.

If you are reading this on WordPress, I encourage you to go to Substack and subscribe to Out My Window. sarasomers.substack.com. It’s free and it’s easy. I hope to bring all of you over by the end of the year. If you no longer want to received Out My Window, unsubscribe now. And thank you for reading my thoughts all these many years.

Thank you everyone for joining me and reading my words for nine years or, perhaps, one month. Please take the time to “like” below so that I know I’m reaching you and comment with anything that my writing has inspired. I read everything and so appreciate the time you give to me.

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A bientôt,

Sara