Oh, my. Today is the day I turn 60 years of age. 60.
When I was young, 60 was old. Ancient. Ready for the nursing home.
I’ve rarely been affected by birthday 'milestones' – 30 didn’t bother me, 40 was the gateway to some of the best times ever, and 50 was just another number.
But 60 – that makes you start thinking. Thinking about how you really don’t have that expanse of time stretching out in front of you (OK, life isn’t guaranteed to anyone, but when you’re in your 20s or 30s, you sort of have that expectation that you’ll be around for a long while).
You start thinking that 70 and 80 are “just around the corner”, if you make it that long. You start wondering which things you can do now will become things you can’t do anymore. You’re truly a “senior citizen”. You’re going to start falling apart.
I've caught myself thinking these things. Hell, it started around 57 or 58. But I came to my senses, got ahold of myself, and my thoughts. I remembered that thinking this way is truly how one becomes “old”. I cast such thoughts away, I hope forever.
I don’t feel 60 and, thank the Gods, many people still tell me I don’t look it, either. Just a week ago, one online friend said, “I’d have never guessed”.
So what if I have a few more aches and pains than I used to? So what if I need my prescription glasses more and more? A few more grey hairs? So what? I’ve never, ever “acted my age” and I don’t plan to start.
I’ll go on as I always have, trying to live life to the fullest, and not giving a damn about numbers.