When I was in my mid-thirties I used to say, “I’m pushing 40!” Then, when I hit my mid-forties, I used to say, “I’m pushing fifty!” Since I entered my mid-fifties I’ve felt, on many occasions, compelled to say, “I’m pushing 60!”, but for some reason I’ve resisted.
As I lay in bed a few moments ago, unable to quiet my brain, it occurred to me that I’ve never really understood the saying, “Age is all in the mind.” I don’t think anyone gets it until they get it, and I think one has to reach a crisis point in the aging game to get it. We think we get it, but then when it finally hits us, we realize we never got it. Not really.
It suddenly occurred to me to forget about numbers, forget about decades, forget about all that crap. I’m still me. I still have my goals and dreams. All that’s changed is that I’ve been walking around a bit longer. So what? What does age have to do with anything? I mean, what’s the big fucking deal about getting older? It’s still just me, and although I’ve gained a certain degree of understanding about life, I haven’t really changed.
When I was younger, in my 20s, I though that when I got old I’d somehow be someone else, not really me. That I’d unwittingly turn into an “old person” and for some reason cease to be the vital, questing, ambitious me that I’ve always been. That’s a bunch of bunk. The bumper sticker was right: Everywhere I go, there I am. So fuck all that aging crap. If I live to be 100 I’ll be chasing down my goals and dreams. It’s just who I am and who I’ve always been.
Okay. Maybe I can go to sleep now.
