Yesterday I turned sixty.
How did that happen? When did the long haired hippie-wannabe morph into this person with "bling" in her hair?
I can remember that neither forty or fifty was a big deal. So why is sixty feeling so weird?
It's because "sixty" doesn't compute with the idea I have of myself. Sixty sounds like it's time to face the fact that I truly am getting old. To admit to being a "senior" citizen. To give up dreams.
Damn it. I don't care if I'm sixty or seventy or eighty or a hundred. I hope I will always have dreams. Always have something I want to accomplish. Always have a reason to wake up every morning with joy about something other than the simple fact that I'm still alive—which is not to say that won't be a good thing.
Let me die while I'm in the middle of writing a scene. Or planting a flower in a pot on the deck. Or getting ready to meet a friend for lunch. Or making something I know my husband will love to eat. Let me die when there is clearly something that will come next.
Don't let me die with my gear stuck in either Park or Reverse. When my engine bites the dust, I want to be in Drive. Even if my motor has major problems, let me go out in the highest gear manageable.
And sixty is strong. Powerful. My health is good and I'm pretty much cruising.
So sixty? Pffft! It ain't nothin'. I get that. Mostly.
How are you feeling about this getting older gig?
It's all better with friends.