Recently a number of conversations with various people have at least touched on the subject of age. It’s always a little disturbing to learn that you are older than someone’s mother or father — especially if you thought that person was close to your age. Anyhow, that got me to thinking about age and aging. Actually, I don’t think about my age until the subject is brought up by someone else. I got to wondering what my age would be if I didn’t know how old I really was. I think I’d pick 33. If you’ve read this blog before, you know I like 33. I admit I can’t do everything I could at 33, but I’d like to think that I still think like I’m 33 (only smarter.)
I guess all my life I’ve picked a number that sounded old. When I was a kid, 20 sounded old to me. But of course as I approached my current “old” number, I picked a new one. When I was 20, 30 sounded old. But as I passed these “old” ages, it never occurred to me that I was now old — or even getting older. Throughout my life, the only age that ever bothered me was 50! I don’t know why, but when I turned 50 I decided that I was — suddenly — old. But after I got past the fact that I was 50 and moved on, none of the other numbers I’ve passed has mattered much to me.
Sixty-five has always been a mile marker – it’s when you’re supposed to retire and bask in the glow of a well-spent life. Sixty-five came and went with barely a notice — just another number.
I’ve decided that a good attitude is to push “old age” out about 10 years older than your present age. I don’t necessarily want to grow up — I think I’ll just stick with aging. I’d write more on this subject, but I’m starting to forget why I started it in the first place….
— 30 —