I freaked out when I turned forty. Forty was not good for me. I loved my thirties and all they entailed. I had enjoyed a tremendous career in sports; became engaged, then married; traveled to Aruba and Europe twice; bought our first home; threw parties; had our two children; watched them grow; became a part-time professor at a four-year university; took exciting vacations with the kids; and spent lots and lots of quality time with family.
In my thirties, I had no:
hip pain
back pain
neck pain
knee pain.
Minus the migraine headaches I endured monthly as part of being a woman, it was, by far, the greatest decade of my life.
The forties, well, let’s just skip those years. There were ups and downs, bumps in the road, good turns and bad turns, fun times and weepy times, and a sense that life just got crazy somehow. I lost my way, then found my way. I dabbled in part-time jobs. Some people love their forties, but as for me, I’d have rather jumped from thirty to fifty, quite honestly.
And then there’s today. It comes rolling in quietly, and yet this milestone birthday has me flummoxed. I am once again in a state of weirdness. It feels like turning forty all over again. The truth is, I am no longer a spring chicken. I’m not. I can face reality. Time does this to us, whether we like it or not. I can’t wear heels anymore. If I sit a certain way, I curse the chair. If I lift a bin from the closet, I end up at Patient First during a Ravens playoff game. I have a wound on my forehead from having pre-cancer scraped off my face by a surgeon. Last week, I missed a step and landed on pavers on my knees. Things happen as we grow older. Time waits for no one.
We do what we can to remain young and stay healthy, but it’s a far cry from the youthfulness of our thirties. If any of you are in your thirties who are reading this, stop for a moment, get down on your knees, and say a prayer of gratitude. In my opinion, you are in the best years of your life.
There are those who will say that I am now entering the best years of my life. I’m heading toward the Golden Years, which, according to Google, begin at 65. That’s not that far away. I could be on The Golden Girls if they revive it.
Retirement looms. Travel awaits. I’m praying that grandchildren are in the “near” future before I’m too old to pick them up. Yes. It’s true: we’ll be able to do whatever we want shortly. We’ll be free, in a sense. We can do whatever we want, go wherever we want, and go out whenever we want.
The fact is my back goes out more than I do.
And yet, there are things in the future that are exciting to look forward to, as well. We have a son soon to be married. We have a daughter who is growing up and is on her own. Who knows what other beautiful things are down the pike?
You don’t have to tell me to be thankful for my life and all that I have. God knows I am thankful. I thank Him every day. I am grateful. I do know how fortunate I am. These things are all true, it’s just that I have a real problem with numbers. I’ve never been good at math, that’s why I’m a writer. I’m good at words, but words escape me when I see the number written out:
60.
Sixty.
The big 6-0.
Mohammed Ali, someone I actually met in person, once said, “Old age is just a record of one’s own life.”
Christy Moore, an 80-year-old Irish folk singer, said, “If I had to live again I would do exactly the same thing. Of course, I have regrets, but if you are 60 years old and you have no regrets then you haven’t lived.” He’s right. I have tons of regrets. Bring me a few trash cans, and I’ll fill them up with them.
But he has a point. I’m 60 now. I’m older and wiser. I have wisdom to share that I didn’t have in my thirties. I have perspectives that have changed. I have faith that has strengthened and deepened. I have Jesus. I have friendships that have stood the test of time. I have family that loves me no matter what. Time changes you. You start to realize just how much time you’ve wasted on stupid, pathetic, unimportant things, and you begin to look at life as if time’s running out.
Because it is.
That’s not a bad thing, actually. It prompts you to do the things you still have left to do. The things that are important to you.
Sure, I can sit here and yearn to be in my thirties again, but what good does that do?
With my wonky back, wobbly knees, waggish hips, and wayward neck, I will forge ahead and embrace this 60 BS.
Because that’s what it is when it comes down to it…
60…
it’s only a number…
a BS number…
that has absolutely nothing to do with…
how I will live out the rest of my life.
About the author:
STEPHANIE VERNI is the author of THE ONES CLOSEST TO YOU, THE LETTERS IN THE BOOKS; FROM HUMBUG TO HUMBLE: THE TRANSFORMATION OF EBENEZER SCROOGE; BENEATH THE MIMOSA TREE; INN SIGNIFICANT; LITTLE MILESTONES; THE POSTCARD; and ANNA IN TUSCANY. She is also a co-author of the textbook, EVENT PLANNING & MANAGEMENT: COMMUNICATING THEORY & PRACTICE. Currently an adjunct professor at Stevenson University Online, she instructs communication courses for undergraduate and graduate students. She and her husband reside in Severna Park, Maryland, just outside Annapolis, have two children, and a little boat that makes them immensely happy.