I have reached an age when, if someone tells me to wear socks, I don’t have to.
They tell me I turned 64 today. That’s what they tell me, though I don’t necessarily believe everyone is being completely honest with me. I had relatives who were 64. Those people were old and I’m pretty sure I don’t act like they did or look like them or walk like them. Well, maybe occasionally I walk a little funny. But hey, I see 20 year old’s moving a little gingerly at times so forgive me if, after playing a game or two of basketball against those “kids”, I get out of the chair a little more slowly than I did earlier in the day. Some things just need time to correct themselves.
In fact, looking back, it seems to me I was clueless until I was about 50 years old.
If, in fact, I am this age that people are singing about, I don’t know where it came from, when it happened or what it means. I know I celebrated some birthdays in the past. I remember being a little depressed when I turned 30 because, well, I turned 30. The only other time a birthday bothered me was when they told me I turned 50, only because old people turn 50. At least that what I used to think. But 50 just happened the other day, that’s why I think this 64 thing is just some practical joke. Because if the people who tolerate my childish ways are trying to convince me that 34 years have passed since I was a depressed 30 year old, then I’m in serious trouble. That means that 98 is right around the corner.
How is that possible? I can give you detailed information about the stickball game I played when I was ten or the people we got even with on mischief night when I was 12. I could even tell you how I cheated on my alphabet test when I was five years old in kindergarten; and you’re trying to push 64 on me? Sorry, I’m not buying into it. I’m just going to keep doing what I’ve always been doing, thinking the way I’ve always thought and trying hard to fight this dirty word people refer to as maturity. And I’m going to listen closely to Woody Allen when he said…
You can live to be 100 if you give up all the things that make you want to live to be 100.
So I guess I’ll never reach the triple digit celebration, because I’m not going to sacrifice all the things I enjoy just so someone can smile at me as they’re wiping the cake off my face and taking a picture for the local newspaper. But I have 60 years to worry about whether that party will happen.
No, the calculation is correct. This isn’t the math you learned in school. This is called birthday math. It’s a little different. If you need a lesson, let me know but my guess is you’ll understand it sooner than you like.
So if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and blow out the candles before the smoke alarms go off. Seems like everyone turns into a comedian on my birthday.
Beautiful young people are accidents of nature but beautiful old people are works of art.