The last time I typed “Regina Brett” AND “90 years old” into Google, I got nearly 400,000 hits. No wonder so many people write emails like these:
“It seems you are aging rapidly. God bless you and your aged bones.”
“You sure look good for 90 years old! Do you have a painting of you in your attic that is getting really REALLY old looking?"
No, there's no Dorian Gray picture decay going on. The Internet aged me. The day before I turned 45, I wrote a column about the 45 Lessons Life Taught Me. I added five more lessons when I turned 50. Readers e-mailed them around the world but someone added this: "Written by Regina Brett, 90 years old."
I am officially an Urban Legend. You can find me on Snopes.com, right up there with myths about baby carrots.
For the record: I turn 54 this year. I'm not sure how to break the news to Berthabelle in Eugene, Oregon. who wrote: "We are the same age except I was born on November 1, 1918. Hope some day we can hear from one another. Isn't it great that we are both ninety? Lovingly, Bertie."
Bertie, I hope to see 90. After having breast cancer at 41, I’m thrilled to grow old. Growing old beats the alternative – dying young. That’s Lesson 36. After hearing from people all over the globe, I turned them into a book, God Never Blinks: 50 Lessons for Life's Little Detours.
It turns out those personal life lessons were universal truths. They came from being a single parent and a cancer survivor, from all the wrong roads taken looking for my mission in life, from the broken road that led me straight to my husband, from strangers I interviewed, from priests I met on retreats, from my family and closest friends.
I'm grateful to all who forwarded my Life Lessons and kept my name on them. A while back, I received an anonymous essay about the cost of raising a child. It seemed oddly familiar.
"What do you get for your money? Naming rights. First, middle and last. Glimpses of God every day. Giggles under the covers every night. More love than your heart can hold. Butterfly kisses and Velcro hugs. A hand to hold, usually covered with jam . . ."
Wait a minute. I wrote that. Nine years ago.
When I was 100.
