My Naughty B-day: Can you say 69?

https://vimeo.com/1041793263/680a7b9869

Well, it’s here. My 69th Birthday! Today, Christmas eve, December 24th is my 69th birthday. and let’s not pretend the number doesn’t come with its fair share of nudge-nudge, wink-wink innuendo.

It’s the number that makes middle school kids giggle, adults smirk, and me, well…pondering how life has become such a blend of the ridiculous and the profound. I mean, beyond giggles, turning 69 is a reminder that I’m stepping into the home stretch toward a different milestone: the big 7-0. This next year, I’ll be closing the chapter on my 60s.

Some numbers do carry cultural weight – like 21 (drinking age!), 30 (where maturity starts mattering), or 40 (the ultimate midlife plot twist: where you’re wiser, yeah, but suddenly Googling “best eye cream for crow’s feet”). 

But 69? It doesn’t just carry weight; it carries… innuendo. The sexy age if you will. 

So, as I prepare to blow out 69 candles (a feat that requires some serious lung capacity – thank god I’m a breathwork expert – so no issue there! ), I’ve decided to embrace the humor, wisdom, and downright weirdness of this milestone.

69 is more than just a punchline; it’s a metaphor. Think about the visual—two perfectly interlocked shapes, circling around each other in harmony. 

Life at 69 feels like that – a balance. There’s a strange, beautiful symmetry to it. 

I’ve lived long enough to know what truly matters (and what really doesn’t), I’ve had the blessing of deep healing from anxiety and not feeling good about myself. It’s the age where I’m old enough to look back with a sense of clarity around my growth and my healing… and young enough to keep looking forward. 

If 69 were a season… the season of 69, it’d be the cusp of summer and fall—a time of harvest, but also of lingering warmth. And that is worth celebrating. 

At this age, I’ve come to realize that relationships matter more than ever. Whether it’s my beloved partner, close personal friends, the deep connections I’ve made with my students and clients or that very conscious stranger I chat with in line at the grocery store here in Portugal, all of these keep life rich and meaningful. 

Making it to 69 is a privilege. Every wrinkle, every gray hair (you wouldn’t know because I bleach it), every odd creak in my joints — they’re reminders that I’ve made it through nearly seven decades of life. 

I’ve survived heartbreak, career roller coasters, more awkward dysfunctional family gatherings than I care to count. And questionable fashion trends (in the 80’s I had to dress like a man when I was a television news anchor).

And about the TV news anchor thing. As a television news anchor back then, I used to live and breathe the world of looking good. News wasn’t just what I delivered—it was what my hair, makeup, and wardrobe projected. 

Youthful looks? Check. A smile bright enough to rival stadium lighting? Check. But the camera’s unrelenting scrutiny also turned me into a perfectionist—a woman determined to fight Father Time (Father Time, wouldn’t you know, it’d be the patriarchy).

Fast forward to now, 69, where I’m realizing that “aging gracefully” is less about grace and more about gritting your teeth and leaning into the mess. 

This past decade has been about accepting that I no longer fit the societal mold of “TV perfect.” Slowly, I’m saying goodbye to the youthful glow that once defined me and saying hello to… other things. Things like whisker plucking. OR things like figuring out which of my jeans still let me breathe (I solved that – I wear yoga pants). And, most importantly, things like unshaming my body. 

SO instead of mourning what’s gone, I’m dedicating the course of this next year—the march toward 70 years old—to talk about the things that I’ve done to stem the march of time, but don’t necessarily want to admit it out loud. 

So, here’s what I’m going to do. My weekly assignment for the year ahead is to uncover and share something about this process of aging that I/we usually keep quiet. Some weeks it’ll be funny (because nothing humbles you like tweezing whiskers). Other weeks it might get serious (because body acceptance isn’t always easy). And some weeks I might just rant about the absurdity of trying to age “gracefully” in a world that worships youth.But I’m going to admit it outloud. Over the next year, 52 weeks, starting in the New Year, once a week, I’ll shine a spotlight on one of those aspects of life I have kept in the shadows. The unspoken cringey truth… all the things that used to make me squirm to have other people know what I do to chase not getting old. 

Because here’s the thing: we’re all doing stuff we don’t talk about. Maybe it IS plucking chin hairs, trying to hide thick ankles or obsessing over cellulite and broken veins. A lot of it … whatever it is, we keep it to ourselves, thinking if they know, I’ll be disregarded, marginalized. The self-talk can be deafening. 

And if 69, and here I am, has taught me anything, it’s that honesty is liberating. So I’ll be sharing it all—the good, the bad, and the wildly awkward during the course of our time together in 2025. 
I’m trying to figure out what to call it, so if you have some ideas, let me know.  One Year of Bold Honesty or maybe “Old Lady-ish” 

So, get ready. I’m making myself a guinea pig, on a journey of self-discovery, self-maintenance, and, yes, self-deprecation. 

I hope you’ll keep listening and reading and letting me know what you think. I am so grateful you are engaged with me and my emotions work … certainly keep talking about that. And, you know, growing older and accepting it, is emotional work – some to gate most important of our lives. 

I’m sending you so much love – on this, my 69th, and always.