Binderama60for60

On this day in 1965, my Mom wrote this in her diary.

“Cramps began when I got up. Hurriedly washed the dishes and packed up the boys’ stuff…I called the hospital and they said to come in and be checked…They decided it was labor so [I] stayed…Our new son was born at 4:45. Weighed 8 pounds and has much black hair. Had supper.“

I know Mom had big dreams for “our new son.” I’d like to think that in her lifetime she saw me attain a few of those. But life is messy.

In my head I am still 25, with all the cravings and bravado that comes with that. In my body, I don’t know, but there are a lot of “lab results” that indicate I am in a good zone. More than anything, I’m grateful not to be in too much pain.

I’m officially old but I am not going to die tomorrow. That’d be a shame because I’ve already written a bunch of posts for this series and some are really good. Others meh. Not to go dark, but I certainly could die tomorrow; I’ve lost too many people at age 60 and under. Plus, I’m in Las Vegas today with dear friends who’ve come to celebrate with me. Thankful, grateful, blessed, and probably a bit tipsy and down a few thousand dollars by now, maybe inked up and pierced. Why not?

Let’s get started.

Everything you’ve ever heard about growing old is true.

The good stuff and the bad. Turning 60 today, it’s time for me to accept that I too have arrived at old, at least physically and in number. I should probably be happy about that, given the alternative. But those of you who know me know me. As for those who say 60 is the new 40, that sounds like some Hallmark hooey. In the eyes of God, the DMV and the IRS, I am 60.

First, I can confirm some of the good.

Contentment has taken hold, replacing decades of constant striving and wanting and chasing. I haven’t achieved all that I dreamed of — not even close — and that’s okay. I’m not going to, and that’s okay. A few months back I stepped away from a job after 11 years. I’m grateful for the run and proud of the work, but I’m looking to spend time on embracing and nurturing contentment, for myself and those around me. This is not a retirement; that’s for older people.

I’ve arrived safely at where I was meant to be, at least for now. Let’s not screw that up.

Time is more precious.

It goes by so fast now. I’d heard that for forever but found it dubious. Turns out, time is flying by faster than ever before and faster than you think is possible. And there’s nothing you can do about it or even try to comprehend. Where did my 30s and 40s go? Where did 2024 go? I guess I should be happy that my 20s seemingly lasted so long, comparably; I’d like to think I made the most of them.

The quickened pace of time, for me, is made more urgent by accepting the finite quantity of it. I have less interest in wasting time on old grudges and regrets. I still harbor both — especially regrets, which I’ll touch on in this series — but I’m convincing myself that both are useless and the key impediments to happiness and contentment. The sooner one learns that lesson, the better. Fingers crossed.

I have less patience for idiots, bullshit, along with the slow, methodical character development of too many streaming series. The idea of sitting in traffic or waiting in line for anything makes me chafe. I wish I could avoid (resist) obsessing about the current state of world affairs and political news. I’ve always been a news junkie, but today’s journalism (and world) is utter madness. All the social apps and sharing should only quicken my retreat, if only.

Making time for friends and family has risen to the top. Ironically, I have less family than ever; it’s been a rapidly depleting population for the past 15 years, and it was never that big to begin with.

As for friends: Mary and I have lived transient lives, separately and together. From St. Louis and Virginia to New York, Florida, Las Vegas, Michigan and up and down California. We’ve befriended amazing people but they are spread far and wide. Since the pandemic — and the epiphany that human contact trumps everything else — we’ve been keen to host and attend reunions to reconnect with those who’ve touched our lives near and far. That’s why we’re here in Vegas this week.

While time is on the wane, discomfort is surging.

Things hurt.

All that advice you’ve heard your whole life about healthy living was probably spot on. Maybe. I didn’t listen. Much. Smoking for 27 years was probably not a good idea, at least that’s what they say. I’m a glutton for meat and wine and cheese and a bit of the old misadventure, with some time reserved for sloth. That probably won’t change until it’s mandated by a legal authority. Carrying some extra weight is taking its toll on my already threadbare knees. (Hot tip: do not Google “bone on bone.”) I recently got my first cortisone injections there, the first step on a journey of discovery, titanium and oxycodone.

Forgive me a bit of heresy: to me a body is just a perfect blob of imperfections from the get-go. What you do with it is up to you. I’ve made decisions and I’ll live with them (and maybe die from them). What I am grateful for is that I inherited into my blob no known genetic vileness like cancer or any of those acronym-laden maladies that have made advertisers and jingle writers rich. My bigger fears are strokes and dementia and the like, as well as the behavior of motorists here in Scottsdale.

Which leads me to mortality.

Mortality has been on my mind for a while. I once felt immortal, as I suppose many people do for a time. When and how we were disavowed of that notion, I have no idea.

For a few days or weeks each summer as a kid I was able to stay with my Gran in Ithaca, Michigan. She was up early every morning, reading the paper, doing the crossword and checking the obituaries. A few times while I was there, she’d get dressed up, give me some lunch and then walk catty-corner from her house to the funeral home across the way for another friendly send-off. Years later, while serving as pallbearer carrying her coffin to the hearse, I looked at her old house and the yard where I spent many summer days playing. It was not a Circle of Life moment. It was just sad.

I used to fear death, the whole idea of it. With age comes wisdom, and accepting, even embracing, death has changed my entire perspective on life. It’s the one inevitable for all of us. The first death of a loved one really hit me hard, but then it became manageable and sometimes even a blessing.

Fun side-note on death: an agency I worked for had design studio that played music all day, curated by Siri. I’d pop in every now and then and command, “Siri, play ‘Seasons in the Sun’” and then leave. The kids really liked that.

I think, therefore…

I’m grateful to have been blessed with a pretty solid intellect. I’m not saying I’m especially gifted; my ego will leave it for you to say. At 60, I’m still curious, creative, engaged and occasionally incredibly witty. In the past few years, I’ve lost a few steps in concentration and recall, and I know that will likely continue. That’s what they tell me, anyway.

Wait, where was I? <rim shot>

In the past decades, I’ve learned a lot, travelled, been challenged and steeled, and been counseled by great thinkers and mentors in literature and art and technology and business. But my mind is the same one I’ve had for 60 years: it still conjures up some of the same silly, subversive and sometimes scandal-worthy notions I had as a lad. I’ll leave it at that, except to say, I hope much of this continues to reside only in my imagination and not in late night rants while roaming the streets and nursing home hallways.

“Grateful”: A Theme Emerges

Don’t worry, I’m still a cynical fuck. Sarcastic too. Even so, I’m grateful for so many things and I’m looking forward to spending my 60th year and beyond learning and creating and existing in new ways, while also making time to savor the people and passions of my past. Perhaps these days ahead will also help to slow time down again. But I doubt it.

In that way, I guess I am still chasing something.

At a minimum, whatever legacy I leave might survive in this digital format alone, until my final credit card expires for the last time. From essays and prose to sentences and words and finally to bytes and bits. Ashes to ashes indeed.

Many of you might live long enough to find out. Enjoy.