Not 1960. The age. 60. Which I will be. Soon.
As 60 gets closer, it gets less threatening. It had been preying on my mind for some time, because my father and grandfathers never quite made it to 70. Morbid, I know.
But it has occurred to me that I have learned well from their medical histories. I’m probably better taken care of than they were. I’m the opposite of hypochondriac, but if I do sense something’s not right, I will call a doctor. In general, not enough men have learned that lesson. I’m glad I have. And if I didn’t, my mother would bark at me. She’s a pit bull when it comes to that.
I distinctly remember my grandparents visiting every weekend, and thinking, “I wonder what I’ll look like when I get old?” Now I realize they were in their late 40s and early 50s when that thought first crossed my little mind.
But now I know. And I’m good with it. (Though my definition of ‘old’ has changed radically since then.)
I suppose, given the business I’m in, that I should have had hair transplants…should have had my teeth straightened…should have lost 40 pounds and shaved off my mustache 20 years ago.
But that’s not me. I gotta be me.
I feel as good as I ever have. I’m enjoying life more than I ever have. I’m still at the top of my game, if I say so myself. And I just did.
So life is good as I knock on the door of the next decade. (Just don’t tell me “It’s just a number, OK?”) I will celebrate, and the celebration will continue soon on a vacation with a lifelong buddy and our wives.
And because I plan to hang around for a good long while, I will be looking both ways for buses before I cross any streets.