I’LL TURN 73 toward the end of summer. This aging thing is quite interesting. I don’t recommend it, but it’s interesting.
Forget that malarkey about age being just a number. That’s arrant nonsense. The difference between a child of 10, a middle-ager of 45 and a coot of 73 is just a number?
Dream on, brother.
When you’re in your 60s, you realize you’re no kid or anywhere near it. But turning 70 is quite an eye-opener.
More and more I notice this phenomenon: “Future” vanishes. That long, straight macadam that disappears into the distance as if you’re motoring toward a faraway mountain chain, the Highway of Future. Well, you’re not driving it anymore, Bub.
Instead, you’re on Present Lane.
When you’re younger, “future” is simply something that’s out there, and it’s way out there, so far out there that you don’t really dwell on it. It’s just there, and you know it.
In your bones.
This mostly subconscious notion of an endless future affects lots of things — attitudes, lifestyle, decisions, plans.
Passing 70 years delivers an immediacy to life that you’d never known before. It’s very interesting. I do not recommend it, but there ain’t nothing you can do about it.
Not one blessed thing.