Editor’s note: Betty Heath is taking the week off. Please enjoy this offering from her archives.

The year was 1937, and the country was in the middle of a depression. The New York Yankees won the World Series, beating the New York Giants four games to one, with the help of Joe DiMaggio and Lou Gehrig.

Route 66 was completed, “Gone With The Wind” won the Pulitzer Prize, Amelia Earhart disappeared over the Pacific Ocean, Bugs Bunny made his debut — and so did I.

Betty Heath / From My Deck Aging is not for the faint at heart. After the age of 29, it takes real guts to keep having birthdays. The older I get, the more I realize that all birthdays are not created equal.

Who needs equality anyway? As we continue to have birthdays, it’s all about equity.

This year finds me with 87 years of accumulated equity. I jokingly tell people I was the original Thanksgiving turkey, as my birthday occasionally falls on that holiday.

When I had my 64th birthday, I told friends and family I was celebrating my 16th birthday for the fourth time. A short time before my 65th, I received a letter from my health care insurance provider, which went something like this: “Congratulations, you are about to reach a milestone in your life. In just six months, you will be 65.”

My little Maltese was by my side when I opened the letter. After reading it, I threw myself on the floor and began kicking and screaming, “Auugh, I don’t want to be 65!” My poor pooch was running around me yapping and licking my face, telling me it was going to be OK.

Surprisingly, I did survive the trauma of turning 65. My, how fast the years have flown by. If there is one good thing about being 87, it’s the fact that I don’t have to make excuses for anything anymore. So what if I can’t remember squat? I’m 87.

No more pretending I’m not growing old. Heck, I have kids who are grownups. I even have grandkids who are grownups. I may be old, but at least I’m not ancient — yet!

I remember the night I went to bed at the age of 69 and waking up the next morning with body parts laying all over the floor. I’ve been spending the past 22 years trying to put myself back together. It’s a tedious task.

That was the time the doctor told me I needed knee replacement surgery. I was thinking more like I had badly sprained my knee, and the doctor would tell me to lounge around, relax with ice packs, etc., and have The Mr. bring me chocolates. When he delivered the diagnosis, I shook my head in disbelief and told him I was falling apart. The Mr. quipped, “Yeah, kind of like a Model T.” The doctor replied, “But at least we have the necessary parts to put her back together.” The Mr. was in deep trouble over his remark.

Friends ask me why I’m dragging bottom. Granted, most of my body parts have gone south, some maybe even as far as Mexico. But I don’t need any insults added to my injuries. Now that I’ve reached the ripe old age of 87, I really appreciate birthdays a lot more. I can hardly wait for number 90 to arrive. I’m hoping my senior discount will double when I reach that milestone. But age doesn’t matter. I’ve already decided that when the Grim Reaper shows up at my door, I’ll hit him with my cane, throw myself on the floor, kick and scream, “Not yet! I’m still enjoying the ride!”

Email Betty Heath at begeheath690.