Recovering Sexagenarian

I admit it. I’m recovering from the last decade.

I’m transitioning out of my full-time job as an unabashed sexagenarian.

Sure, there have been moments of wild abandon: going to JCPenney at 5 a.m. for a Black Friday sale, drinking a whole bottle of wine by myself when my eldest sister visits, or break dancing at my stepdaughter’s 30^th birthday party.

But there are some profound lessons I’m learning as I move into my seventies.

For instance, in the chaos of blurring vision, weakening knees, and occasional memory lapses, a tiny cosmic seed of “I don’t give a shit” has started to take root.

After decades of laboring to look my best, feel my best, dress my best, do my best, parent my best, partner my best — one day, after that perfectly brewed cup of coffee — I realized it just doesn’t seem to matter as much.

It’s the dawn of my next era. Worn out sweatshirts. Fresh wrinkles. Emerging cataracts. Scars so numerous they look like a pattern for cross-stitching.

My seventieth birthday was quite the celebration. My daughter conspired with family, friends, and former co-workers to record video greetings. My husband had asked friends and family to send cards — and they did, by the dozens. That night, our kids gathered around on our deck as the sun set behind the sabal palms and sea oats. We lit candles as the sky darkened. Then they each shared a memory of something I had done that they would never forget.

“I was in fourth grade,” my stepdaughter Laura said. “It was a Sunday night, I had a test on the state capitals the next day and I was panicking because I didn’t know them. You took out a stack of index cards and said, ‘Let’s play a game.’ We wrote a capital on each card and then you played over and over until I got them right. The next day, I took the test and got a 100.”

My daughter-in-law said, “The first time I met you was at the Decatur Book Festival. I was so nervous. The town square was packed. I didn’t know anyone, or even where to go. You slipped your arm through mine and said, ‘Let’s go get lunch.’  Just as warm and kind as if I’d known you for years. It really put me at ease.”

My face flushed. I was not used to the attention and praise. It occurred to me this must be what one’s funeral is like — except it was so much better to be alive.

My 79-year-old eldest sister sent me two cards. It was apparently a special enough birthday that she spent $6.99 each to express sentiments written by a thirty-year-old. Or now, perhaps by AI.

But it was the message in her handwritten note that stuck with me.

“Enjoy your youth!”

Life wasn’t over. It was starting anew at 70.

It was a fresh thought for me.

I recently read an article on Medium where the author, Gary Buzzard, discussed being a “baby elder.” I immediately fell in love with that term.

I no longer need to accept the label of “old,” “in my 70s,” or “senior citizen.” If younger generations believe my skin is too saggy, my gait too slow, or my thoughts are, well, long-winded, it doesn’t matter to me. Seriously.

Because I am a baby elder. Youthful and wise.

Think about it. I know to not wash my whites with darks and that drinking too much wine does indeed come with consequences. I realize that the chances of poking my eye while running with a stick are low, but the chances I will need a hot tub soak after hiking are high.

In addition, I have finally been able to recover from a long-suffering chronic illness — grandchild-deficiency syndrome.

Try as I might, I could not get my children to reproduce.

Most of them are not married, but that’s not the point.

Though I refuse to call their domesticated animals my grandkitten or grandpuppy — a bridge too far — I hope I have released my children from any unintentional obligation to procreate. It’s their life. They get to make their own choices.

I feel anchored in knowing that the guy who shares my bed isn’t going anywhere, except maybe to the W.C. three times a night. But so do I, and as we pass each other like proverbial ships in the night, there is always a shared sleepy smile and a pat on the tush.

So. I believe I’ve recovered from my sixties.

I’ve laid some things down and picked other things up.

And as long as this baby elder can remain a body in motion, I intend to enjoy being young.

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Interested in more topics like this? Check out In A Pickle and Courage At 0.5 MPH

Thanks for reading!