Wait a minute, that can't be right!

I’ve never been too big on so-called “milestone birthdays.” Turning 20, 30 and 40 didn’t make much of an impression on me, at least as far as I can remember, looking back on it.

Fifty was a bit different. When I crossed that threshold 10 years ago, it was clear, even to a one-day-at-a-time guy like me, that my life had taken a definite turn. I remember being greeted with black balloons and a bottle of Geritol at work that day. The gifts struck me as funny, but they also underscored the fact that a 50th birthday was in a league of its own. 

So, what to make of turning 60? Yesterday was the big day. I tell myself that being 60 isn’t old, exactly, not in this day and age, not like it was back when I was a kid.

People seemed more worn out, more used up, at 60 in those days than they do now. Life expectancies were shorter, and folks didn’t take care of themselves as well as they should have, whether out of ignorance or indifference or a lack of time. Sixty year olds looked and acted like George Wilson, the fat, grumpy, short-tempered neighbor in Dennis the Menace.

I walk two miles a day. I’m not overweight. I don’t smoke or drink, except for a very occasional glass of beer. My wife Liz claims I still look like I’m in my mid 50s, although whether she says that because it’s true or simply to placate me is unclear.

So I don’t feel old. But the thing about 60 is, you can’t really delude yourself anymore. Even at 59, you can fudge the march of time by noting, disingenuously, that you’re “only” in your 50s. No more. As my friend Al pointed out in an e-mail yesterday, I'm now an "old coot." Ready or not, the illusory plateau that was the previous decade is now clearly recognizable as a downhill slide.

God willing, the rest of the ride will be long and (mostly) pleasant. But clearly, there’s no turning back. Of course, that was equally true at 40, at 30 and even at 20. It’s just that I wasn’t perceptive enough to realize it in those days.

Looking pretty good for my age!