My washing machine turns 40 years old this year. This strikes me as an amazing milestone. Do I consider it more of an accomplishment than my 40-year marriage? Yes, I do. From the day we exchanged rings, I sensed my husband and I would go the distance. But my washing machine lasting four decades? That one I did not see coming.

We purchased it in 1979 after we moved into our first home. Gone were the days of hoarding quarters, running down to the basement of our apartment building only to find someone had beat us to the punch. In our own little laundry room, we were living the dream.

It took us no time at all to select our spanking new Sears’ Kenmore washing machine. It was a simpler time. There was no arm wrestling the salesman to escape the extended warranty. And we could have any color we wanted, as long as it was white or beige. We chose beige.

Still in our honeymoon phase, those early loads of laundry were light and undemanding. When our three children came along, life got busier and more complicated. There were days when I was running that machine morning, noon and night. Then, in a blink of an eye, those children grew up and moved away, finding laundry facilities of their own. In our empty nest, I’m back to a couple small loads a week. Easy peasy.

Except when our adult children come home to visit, toting their dirty laundry with them. I hover over them as they try to stuff three loads of laundry into one. Don’t they appreciate that my machine is old? Its accelerator has slowed down and that chugging sound it’s making is communicating that it can no longer tackle the heavy load. It doesn’t want to be dumped on. I can relate.

My washing machine may be on its last legs but I’m not ready to kick it to the curb or donate it to the Smithsonian Hall of Obsolete Appliances. I can’t face the daunting prospect of entering a big box store and picking out a new one that requires a degree in computer engineering in order to operate. Especially since I’m still trying to figure out how to program my new oven and refrigerator.

My unease isn’t just about the stress of replacing old appliances. When my dentist retired recently it sent me into a tizzy. How dare he abandon me so he can enjoy his well-deserved golden years? I sound almost childlike in my quest to understand why it is everything and everyone can’t stay the same forever.

The fact of the matter is that I’m more vulnerable now and there is so much more to obsess over. When I was young, there was a lot more time for a do over. And I was braver; mistakes weren’t so daunting. Now, not so much.

Appliances breaking down. People taking their leave. As loss becomes a more frequent companion, it is hard not to worry about what awaits us around the next corner. Life is so random. It is a wonder any of us gets out of bed in the morning.

I don’t want anything or anyone to quit on me. Especially my loved ones. I want them to stay safe. Go the distance. Be well.

Ditto my appliances. I want them to see me out.

I’m holding on to my beloved washing machine for as long as I can. This spring, when it turns 40 years old, I’m throwing it a party not unlike the celebration we had last year when my children and grandchildren returned home for our 40th wedding anniversary.

I’ll serve my infamous chocolate chip cookies with frosty glasses of chocolate milk. And if my grandchildren spill their milk, staining my favorite tablecloth, no worries. Unlike so many of my day to day struggles with anxiety, that’s an easy fix.

My washing machine and me. Cleaning up life’s little messes. One load at a time.

Forty years and counting.

Debby Tepper Glick can be reached at watchestwo@gmail.com.