The following are excerpts from This Is 70: A Life in Micro-Memoirs, a linked set of 70 mini essays of exactly 70 words each, written to mark the author’s 70th birthday. Parts I and II explore growing up in an enmeshed, kissy-huggy family; her resulting confusion about intimacy, femininity, and feminism; becoming a therapy patient—and a therapist; and her quest to stay connected to her family without losing her sense of self. These selections, from Part III, spanning ages 55 to 70, are about searching for love and equanimity as a single, never-married woman—and about the unavoidable truths of daughtering, aging, and loss.
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Open Space
My full-size mattress dies. Saggy, lumpy, impossible.
I order a queen-size Sleep Number—his-and-hers airbags, his-and-hers remotes.
Night one, I plummet into a center trench.
“You need a partner’s countervailing weight,” the phone rep says.
“But the salesman promised...”
“Ah! We call you ‘The Hopefuls.’ I’ll send a single-bag replacement—you can upgrade anytime.”
“And the second remote?”
“Keep it for now,” she says.
“Just in case,” we both chirp.
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Three Blind Dates, See How I Run: Mark, the Hairy Politico
Kickstand Café: White ponytail, divorced, politically active, jazz musician. Potential! In a monologue, he reveals his sister’s hysterectomy, father’s phlebitis, lackadaisical coworkers, socialist leanings.
He finally asks, “You’re a therapist and a writer—what do you write?”
I begin.
He interrupts.
I go pee, ponder my options. Give him a chance.
After I return, he still rambles.
“I have to leave,” I lie.
He says, “Let’s do this again sometime!”
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Three Blind Dates, See How I Run: Anthony, the Close Walker
Fresh Pond: Divorced songwriter. Sweaty hug. Margarita, his chihuahua, yips.
As we walk, his bristly arm hairs tickle. I edge away. He edges toward.
We rest on a bench. His thigh grazes mine. Give him a chance.
He confesses he’s five years older than his profile. Sixty-five to my fifty-five.
Margarita pees on my brand-new capris.
“Sorry, I’ve gotta go!” I say.
Anthony calls out, “Let’s do this again sometime!”
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Three Blind Dates, See How I Run: Lawrence, the Sincere Depressive
Starbucks: Lanky health administrator, meditator. Chinos, checkered shirt. His gastrointestinal history, three ex-wives. Asks no questions. Give him a chance. We touch on depression and death, diverticulitis and diarrhea.
An hour later, he says, “Let’s evaluate our date!”
I say I need time to digest it.
“My best in ages!” he says.
I decline a second date but earn his endorsement: “Your future partner’s a lucky guy.”
I quit dating.
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Pros and Cons of Living Alone
Pros:
Total responsibility for TV choices, mealtimes, bathroom access, ventilation, thermostat, cluttered vs. clean
No conversation when I don’t feel like talking
No demands for hugs, kisses, sex
No one whose needs I must meet
Cons:
Total responsibility for shopping, cooking, cleaning, dishes, cat care, laundry, bills
No conversation when I do feel like talking
No requests for hugs, kisses, sex
No one whose needs I might want to meet
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Sixtieth-Birthday Reverie
I imagine leaning over and whispering to my twenty-one-year-old self, the one at Planned Parenthood. “So, Deb, guess what? Turns out this will be your one and only pregnancy. No true luv, no husband, no kids. Do you want to change your mind?”
For the first time, I wonder, Was it a boy or a girl? What would my child have been like? Would I have been a good mother?
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And Now a Pause for a Teeny-Tiny Rant, Thank You Very Much
Mom refuses to consider assisted living.
My brother and I long-distance manage her money-pit house. And her devoted, high-maintenance live-in aide, Natasha. And ulcer-inducing troops of Medicare bureaucrats.
Then Trump. Lockdown. Pandemic. Blahblah.
Apparently delusional, I’d envisioned my sixties as carefree, creative.
Instead, I call Mom nightly, visit monthly, absorb her—and Natasha’s—woes.
For six years.
An inheritance? Hahahahaha.
Fuck mindfulness. Fuck lovingkindness. I never signed up for this!
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Who Will Have Me Now?
My face sprouts moles. My once-jaunty breasts slouch toward my thickening waist. My pubic hair is gray, thinning. Nine crowns, one implant. I sleep with a mouthguard, wrist brace, orthopedic pillow. I’m lactose intolerant, allergic to scents, battling insomnia. Diagnoses: osteoporosis, tinnitus, arthritis, carpal tunnel, hyperthyroidism, IBS, reflux, dry eye, dry skin, dry everything.
I ask my doctor about sex at my age. “Lots of lube,” she says. “And patience.”
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Magic Question
Feather-frail at ninety-eight, Mom struggles to stand, even with my support, as Natasha deftly changes her diaper. Five years a widow, she’s survived fractures, pneumonia, heart surgery.
“Great job!” I say, squeezing her hand.
“Thanks, dear.”
I used to hate when she compared “our” cheekbones, crooked second toe.
But today, if I asked a Magic 8 Ball, “Am I turning into my mother?” it would answer, “Signs point to yes.”
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Reckoning
When I see Mom fetal-curled on her death bed, and it looks like it really is her death bed now, not just another dress rehearsal, and the nurse confirms that her body really is shutting down, that she’ll never wake up, and it’s only a matter of days, or hours—something in me shifts. I’m flooded with waves of…what? Relief? Regret? Grief? Rage? Forgiveness? Love? Acceptance?
Yes.
All of it.
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is a writer, editor, therapist, and former GrubStreet instructor. Her essays have appeared in the New York Times, Boston Globe, Salon, Cognoscenti, Brevity Blog, The Manifest-Station, JMWW Journal, and elsewhere. Her essay about the conception and construction of This Is 70, “A Macro Micro-Memoir Challenge,” appeared on Brevity Blog. Deborah also wrote the award-winning picture book Charlotte and the Quiet Place and a clinical workbook, Sober Starting Today. She has an MFA from Lesley University and an MSW from Smith College School for Social Work. Deborah is seeking a publisher for This Is 70. You can find her on Substack at Write It Like It Is: Everyday Observations and Existential Musings, or visit www.deborahsosin.com.
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Funny and heart-piercing. Let’s do this again sometime!
Touching and so relatable. Love the blunt delivery of this clear- eyed storytelling and want to read more.