WRITING
Beginning Again At Fifty-Five
In which I attempt to calculate the remaining years of my life and plan for the final act
(Author’s note: Don’t be turned away too early in reading this piece. It starts a little dark but gets lighter as it goes. It ends with hope, as all good stories must.)
Today is my birthday. Monday, February 13. No need to make a fuss. I barely pay it any mind myself. I only bring it up because others do, and I thought I’d get out in front of it. My stepson Ricky stopped by earlier today and asked me when it was that I first felt old.
I had to think about it.
The average life expectancy in America for a white male is 77 years. By any reasonable calculation, at the unremarkable age of 55, I’m roughly three-quarters of the way through the only life I’m ever likely to experience. Three-quarters would technically be 57, but I’m hedging towards the lower side as I’m not the healthiest specimen walking the earth today. I’m not terribly motivated to do much to change that either, at least not drastically enough to prolong it much further. So, let’s call it a quarter left.
Whatever efforts I’m currently putting forth are the maximum expenditure I’m willing to do to not clock out too early, as in next week, month…
