Another one bites the dust. A year that is. This past weekend I was reminded that time marches on relentlessly whether you like it or not. I “celebrated” my birthday for the 63rd time.
That’s not an insignificant number. Sixty-three of anything can be a lot or a little, depending on your perspective. Sixty-three cents won’t get you a cup of coffee, but 63 dollars would buy you a nice dinner. Sixty-three friends would be 60 more than really necessary or manageable. Sixty-three days is one day more than one sixth of a year. Sixty-three years is two short of normal retirement age. But age sixty-three feels like the downhill slide is accelerating beyond controllable limits.
I know they say that age is just a number and that you are only as old as your attitude. If that’s the case then I am at least 40 years younger than the trail of years that I’ve left in my wake. I certainly don’t feel old enough to qualify for that senior discount that businesses are willing to give (although I am not the least bit reluctant to take advantage of it). But how I feel mentally is confusing since physically I feel every minute of my 63 years and then some.
The human brain is an adaptable muscle. When exercised regularly it can convince you of all sorts of capabilities that your physical being may not be able to keep up with. In my mind I can still run five miles without breaking a sweat, bicycle a century in eight hours on a weekend, cut my sizable lawn walking behind the mower for three hours, shovel several inches of snow off my 100 yards of driveway without benefit of a snowblower, maintain a single digit golf handicap without a lot of practice, work hard and party hard and do it all again the next day. But who am I kidding? Doing all those things is a dream I won’t let go of even though my PD compromised body says “no way.”
So maybe age is just a number, but my number is a definite 63 now. Attitude not withstanding, there is no denying my 63. Check with me next year at this time to see if that real or attitudinal number changes.