Age is Just a Number: A Life in the Whirlwind of Passion
Margaret was preparing for her sixtieth birthday. The number sounded like a verdict, and saying it aloud was unbearable. Once upon a time, sixty marked the threshold of old age—the beginning of decline—yet even by today’s gentler standards, it still meant stepping into the realm of “elderly.” The mere thought of it made her heart clench.
The last time she’d felt this strongly about her age was at thirty. Back then, it seemed youth had vanished forever, leaving only shadows of her former freedom. But now, looking at her grown children, Margaret could only scoff bitterly at those memories.
She paused in front of her bedroom mirror, studying her reflection carefully.
“Not bad,” she murmured, turning from side to side. “Could pass for forty. Feel like it too. Nothing aches, everything bends—touch wood.” She winked at her reflection, as though daring time itself, then set off on her husband’s errand.
The celebration was to be lavish—a getaway to the coast of Spain with friends and family. Margaret had resisted at first—birthdays like this weren’t for revelry but for pondering life’s mysteries. Besides, it was pricey, far-flung, and a hassle. But her protests were drowned out by the family’s enthusiasm. Her husband, Geoffrey—nicknamed “Geoff” by everyone—vowed to handle everything, from flights to a slideshow soundtracked by David Bowie. Their youngest son would edit it, but the photos? Naturally, that fell to Margaret.
She settled onto the plush living room rug, sighing heavily as she opened an old chest of drawers. The photos weren’t plentiful—casualties of two emigrations and endless moves. Childhood snapshots were scarce; when she’d left her native Manchester in her early twenties, sentimentality had been a luxury. Some she’d recovered from her parents, but even they had little. Her first marriage, the divorce—she’d left with only a handful of keepsakes: her own pictures, the children’s, a few friends’. The rest belonged to a past that never quite arrived.
Unlike her first husband—an amateur photographer—Geoff rarely touched a camera. Still, over the years, the photos had piled up. Then life got busy: phones broke, hard drives failed, folders full of files vanished into the digital void. The albums you could flip through, touch, remember? Gone.
As she sifted through the images, Margaret stumbled upon one from graduation—wearing the dress her grandparents had sent from London. Another from her hospital placement after third year. Then, her eldest son’s bar mitzvah, his nervous smile, her swelling pride. And suddenly—a photo stuck to another. She peeled them apart carefully. Her breath caught. **Laura.** Beside her, Margaret in an emerald-green dress at a Purim celebration.
They hadn’t seen each other in nearly thirty years.
Laura had stormed into their intern group that autumn, transferring from cardiology to general practice. Petite, with a sharp bob and enormous eyes, she seemed girlish until she spoke—then everyone knew: this wasn’t just brilliance, but raw talent. An immigrant from Edinburgh, she’d arrived with her mother and husband—the latter her former professor, a good decade her senior. Aced every exam first try, could’ve chosen any specialty. She picked cardiology—prestigious, close to her husband. But after six months of night shifts, she cracked and switched to general practice.
She and Margaret became inseparable. When Laura’s mother started babysitting Margaret’s son, they were practically sisters. As training wound down, they talked endlessly about the future.
“Maybe endocrinology?” Margaret mused.
“Why?” Laura waved her off. “Three more years buried in textbooks, then waiting for patients? General practice is where the action is—everyone passes through you!”
In the end, Margaret stayed in general practice. Laura went into endocrinology. And left for Barcelona.
Laura had the perfect family—mother, husband, younger sister—all who adored her. But one thing eluded her: a child. Years of trying, tears, clinics. Then, a miracle. A daughter, born just before graduation. Laura decided to stay in Barcelona, among the British expat community.
Their goodbye was wrenching. They called often, Laura’s mother snatching the receiver to gush over “my little love”—Margaret’s son. But life stretched the distance. Calls grew sporadic, years trickled by. Until—an invitation to a Purim feast, a celebration of Laura’s daughter’s first year.
Laura described it breathlessly: a dress costing a thousand pounds, a stylist from Milan, hairstyling at two hundred quid—and this was the late nineties! Margaret panicked, but her hairdresser, Sarah, reassured her:
“Your hair’s gorgeous. Blow-dry, brush, hairspray—you’ll be a queen.”
At a sale, Margaret found an emerald dress with an open back, a suit for Geoff, a huge suitcase, and self-tanner. No time for sunbathing—her pale Manchester skin would fry under Spanish sun.
They flew in late Friday. Saturday was for sightseeing. Margaret slipped on comfy trainers; Geoff wore a shirt declaring, “Manchester—Not Half Bad!” Then off they went to conquer the city.
The plan was grand: La Rambla, Sagrada Família, the Gothic Quarter, the waterfront. Reality: crowds, traffic, a market too noisy, the Basilica under scaffolding. They ate something trendy, pricey, and not particularly tasty. Geoff grumbled but filmed everything.
Then came the sea, seagulls, street musicians, the scent of café con leche. A stroll down Passeig de Gràcia, where every shopfront looked like a film set.
“Think Jude Law had coffee here,” Margaret said.
“Or someone who wishes they were him,” Geoff snorted.
At Casa Batlló, she ducked into a boutique, tried on sunglasses worth three hundred quid, spritzed on perfume for a hundred, and left trailing luxury. A proper leading lady.
Then—Sunday. Scarfing down a breakfast that deserved more attention, Margaret rushed to get ready. The self-tanner, meticulously applied, dried in streaks. The result: an orange zebra.
She refused Geoff’s help—he was in high spirits, fueled by a morning mimosa, and she feared the outcome. Salons were closed. The only one open was across town. The stylist, speaking no English, expertly coiled her hair into curls and doused them in spray until they hardened like a helmet.
Margaret dared a glance in the mirror: orange face framed by what resembled an ’80s perm. She turned away instantly, vowing never to look again.
Geoff insisted on makeup:
“You always go too light. Think glamour, darling!”
He was an artist: stepping back, squinting, returning. The result: electric-blue lids, bronze cheeks, scarlet lips. Margaret was horrified. Geoff? Thrilled.
Outside, she flagged down taxis. No luck.
“Think they assume I’m working the night shift,” she muttered. “You try. At least you look like a producer.”
The party was at Laura’s new place in Gràcia—Barcelona’s little Britain. Everything glittered: tables, music, children, waiters. And in the center—Laura, glowing as ever. With a cold sore.
“Stress,” she sighed tragically, the future endocrinologist. “I tried so hard—”
“You’re still the most beautiful,” Margaret said, meaning it.
Now she stares at that photo: emerald dress, orange skin, absurd hair, her friend’s cold sore—and their radiant smiles. Back then, it felt like disaster. Now? She’d give anything for that moment.
For that life brimming with hope, for her friend beside her, for the certainty that everything still lay ahead. Because, honestly? Between thirty and sixty? It was a bloody good time.
What’s next? We’ll see. The hairbrush is ready, the self-tanner’s improved. And life? It’s still full of surprises.
