Landmark

Today is my birthday.
I'm another year older.

For the most part, I have enjoyed getting older.
There is, however, a point of diminishing returns.

They say “Older but Wiser”, but sometimes you’re just older.

Today I turned 60. 60, mind you!

The birthday itself doesn’t bother me.
I’ve never had trouble turning any age, except one. For me it was 50. The day itself didn’t bother me, but coming up on it did.
As I saw it, all the fun things of life were behind me: being a child, going to school, dating, marrying, having children. And what was there to look forward to? Not much.

It's now 10 happy years later, and I’m tired. I was born tired. I was so listless as a child my mother thought I had a disease. But now I’m really tired. I find that time moves faster and I move slower. I get less done. I am spent more easily. I rest more often.

I really can’t complain. My health is good. I still work and play and maybe can still do a handspring.

It’s small stuff that gravity is winning the war with my body, and that it takes me twice as long to look half as good. By the time I’ve applied eye cream, wrinkle cream, firming cream, moisturizer, make-up, and taken all my pills, it’s lunchtime.

Being 50 was okay, kind of middle-aged. But there’s nothing middle-aged about 60. I am officially old.

Growing old is not the same thing as growing up.
The real problem is that I’m not grown up enough to be 60.

The truth be told, I’m kind of proud to be 60.
I am at last grateful to my dad for my oily skin, and to my forever-young mother. I feel younger, look younger, and think younger than some people my age.


Maybe there’s something to Peter Pan.

Maybe I don't have to grow up.

I just have to grow.




You are always the same age inside. Mary Engelbreit