Turning 60 is not my idea of fun
There it hovers… like the alien spaceship in Independence Day or the Goodyear blimp on Super Bowl Sunday. It’s staring me in the face from just over the horizon… half encouraging, half mocking. If I happen to forget it’s coming, for whatever spare moment or two a day might allow, it makes sure to remind me, in ways both subtle, and not so much… the pulled muscle from tying my shoe, or the seventh time I’ve been addressed as “Sir” today. I’m going to be 60 on my next birthday and there’s no avoiding it without my own funeral. It’s only a few days away… but who’s counting?
I wasn’t a math major, but 60 is big… it’s as old as two of me when I was thirty. 60 is tired… my new bff’s are five hour energy and an afternoon nap. 60 is old… it means I’ve used up about 80% of my reasonable expectation of a healthy and satisfying life span. I don’t care what anyone, of any age says about the comfort and satisfaction of turning 60. I only know that it’s me that’s turning 60 any minute now, and I am not digging the thought of it AT ALL
What exactly am I supposed to like about turning 60? That I’m still physically active? Big deal… what sensible person isn’t at least some abstract version of physically active? That my mind is still sharp? I’m turning 60, not 160. That I’m still alive? Jesus… could we set the bar any lower? All I need at my disposal for a true understanding of this “milestone” is a calendar and a calculator: Do I have more of my best days ahead of me, or behind me?Exactly.
Having said that, 60 can get all up in my grill (as the kids say, or used to) as much as it wants and I’m still going to beat it back down. I’m still relevant. I can recognize a Kendrick Lamar song… I have an instagram account (that I don’t know how to use)… I play hoops. I’m cooler than most douchebags half my age, even if I’m the only one who thinks so. So, fuck 60… at least until 60 (or older) decides to come back and fuck me in return. Until then, I’m right here 60… bring it on.
Happy to be alive? You bet I am. Kicking and screaming and being brutally honest about getting older every step of the way? You bet I am.