I’ve just hit my 60th birthday. Ugh.
Birthdays featuring zeros are viewed as events that make us
older. Take turning forty, for instance. It’s hard to do, but then you have ten
years to be a 40-something before you have to face fifty. I don’t mind being sixty,
I just don’t like the number.
I also don’t like the fact that I’m now starting to see a
sixty year-old man in the mirror. That probably is how everyone feels at some
point. We all would like to think we don’t look as old as we really are. One
day, reality sets in, and denial is futile.
I do like that I get to move up to the white tees, so I’ve
got that going for me. (Note: regardless of color, they are referred to as the
‘senior’ tees. That is, until you move up to them. Then, they are referred to
by their color. ‘Cause we ain’t seniors!)
My 59th year was a good one. It was my first full
year of retirement, and my wife and I roamed around a lot. Disney World, Boston , Amsterdam , New York City, Mexico … but I’ve apparently left a
little hair in each place. The current version of me is getting quite thin on the
dome.
My apologies to housekeeping.
How does it feel, you ask? Since I’m in good shape (not yet
a fully-inflated beach ball), reasonably active (I get out of the golf cart to
swing at the ball), and healthy (what triple bypass?), turning sixty feels no
different than turning fifty. Or forty, for that matter. Just another day in
the life.
Because I spend most of my time living my life, I rarely take time to reflect on it. But I found
myself doing just that the other day.
Get the picture: we’re on the Georgia coast, and it’s a cool but
sunny day. A little restaurant on the marina with a reputation for serving
tasty food has brought us our lunch and bloody marys. We’re sitting beside a
picture window looking at hundreds of boats of all sizes, moored to the piers,
bobbing gently in the tidal waters.
I’m thinking, ‘man, you can’t beat this life,’ when a man
appears on the boardwalk, nicely dressed and walking to his boat. The way he is
dressed and the fact that there is a golf bag hanging from his shoulder leave
little doubt as to where he is going.
When I go golfing, I throw my clubs in the back of my pick-up
truck. Not this guy. He’s got a yacht.
Curses. I’ve just been one-upped.