This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2017, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

There are all kinds of milestones in this life, right?

Your first word, first step, first day of kindergarten. Your first crush, first date, first kiss. (Hopefully not behind the dumpster at Hires.) (But that's another story.)

Hold on to your hat, because there are more milestones to come. Your first driver license. Your first part-time job. Your first grown-up job. Your first time living on your own. Your first serious relationship.

Yup. The milestones just keep piling up until one day you're experiencing a milestone you never even dreamed of back in the day. You and your parents are sitting in a booth at IHOP on your birthday, ordering breakfast off the senior menu together. Dude! The price is right and, as the IHOP website says, the "55+ menu offers many of your favorite items at appropriate portions."

So there you are — three old people, eating appropriate portions of stuff. WHO KNEW?

"Wow," my dad said. "It's hard to believe your mother and I have a kid your age."

My age! Gah!

I won't lie. I've been feeling my age a lot lately — from the aches and pains that greet me in the morning to the reduced energy I feel by the time night falls. I feel my age when I lose my words in the middle of a sentence and have to pull the "tortilla card."

I also feel my age when I ask people to repeat themselves because I CAN'T HEAR WHAT THEY'RE SAYING. And I'm not good at reading lips yet. It turns out our health teacher was right. If you went to too many concerts at the Salt Palace as a teenager, you turn into a deaf adult. Rock on!

And, finally, I feel my age whenever I skim though the tabloids in the checkout lines at the grocery store and wonder who most of the celebrities are. I also wonder why none of them wears actual clothes in public. You want to know why I wonder that? Because I'm old. And when you're old, apparently you think people should wear actual clothes in public. Not underwear.

I was whining the other day about feeling ancient to my mother, who stopped me midcomplaint.

"Look," she said. "It's a privilege to grow old."

Her words brought me up short. Trust me when I tell you that this woman is not a Pollyanna. No, no, no, no, no. Oh, hell no. Any attorney worth his salt would HATE to have my mother on a jury awarding damages because she has an uncanny ability to foresee disaster, no matter how unlikely. (It must be said, however, she doesn't hold a candle to my friend Becky's mom, who warned us darkly to stay away from the propellers when we went boating with boys in high school because the propellers might chip our teeth.)

Anyway. My mother has seen up close and personal all the hard stuff that the aging process brings. Pain. Illness. Decline. Loss. Yet she says it's a privilege to grow old. And here's the deal: She really means it.

I asked her to explain the privilege part.

You get to see your children raised, she told me. Your grandchildren, too. And if you're lucky you'll meet a few great-grandchildren along the way.

But the best part, she continued, is that your priorities shift. You don't have to compete. You can sit back and truly enjoy the success of others. You don't have to prove yourself anymore.

Who knows if I'm capable of arriving at such a Zen place.

But I so love that my mother has.

Ann Cannon can be reached at acannon@sltrib.com or facebook.com/anncannontrib.