I’ve written before that the worst year I ever had was when I turned thirty-six. I was closer to forty than thirty and I didn’t like it. When I turned forty-six, I told people I was forty-seven, so when I actually turned forty-seven, I gained a year. That’s the logic of a desperate man. On Friday, I turn seventy-nine and I’ll be pushing eighty. I’m doing my best to catch my friend, Ed, who’ll be one hundred and nine in November.
Pushing eighty has a way of gaining your attention. Time stops racing and begins to slow, revealing the small details you once passed by without a second thought. Since living alone, I’ve done a lot of that. I’ve found things in the house I never knew I had and others whose purpose I didn’t understand. I saw them before but never paid attention. I took much of it for granted because I was always in a hurry or I differed to Ruth because she saw things I didn’t.
I’ve noticed changes in my mirror but I’m learning to accept them, even my expanding forehead, because I think distinguished grey is better than gone.
I’ve swapped speed for depth, and noise for clarity. I’ve lived long enough to stop pretending and start appreciating. There’s a steadiness that comes from living this long, and I’m grateful for every moment behind me and each one still ahead.
I’ve seen more than some, so I ask questions when I’m not sure of things that come my way. People say I’ve always been a good listener. Better than most really. I’ve thought things through before taking action. Waiting sometimes cost me opportunities, but I thought being cautious was the safer path. Maybe that’s why I didn’t wait to speak to Barbara as quickly as I did when I first met her. I didn’t want to miss the opportunity.
I hope my road is long and healthy. I’m a bit of a late bloomer in that regard but I’m on track now. As I’ve said before, I’m shooting for March 3, 2041, and when I arrive there, I’ll set another goal.
One of the advantages of getting older is gaining a kind of clarity you didn’t have in your twenties. Hell, I didn’t see this well in my thirties, forties, fifties and sixties. I’m just starting to learn what to hold and what to let go. I want my stories to be the footprints I leave behind, and as I grow older, I’ve come to value more and more the gift of being remembered.
Here’s the truth. I’m not done. Life still has a few tricks up its sleeve, and some of my best chapters showed up later than expected. Pushing eighty feels less like getting old and more like getting real. If the next decade is anything like the last one, I’m in for a ride. Slower, maybe, but deeper and filled with the kind of joy you recognize the moment it walks in. There’s no time to dawdle.
So, as I step towards eighty, I’m carrying the same curiosity that’s followed me all my life. I’m still learning, still listening, still showing up for the people and moments that matter. If anything, these years have taught me that life doesn’t shrink with age. It becomes clearer, hopefully kinder, and definitely more intentional. If I’m lucky, the road ahead will keep offering pleasant surprises and the chance to keep becoming who I was meant to be all along. More than anything, I’m still a work in progress. Stay tuned. We’ll see.
When we were younger, say in our twenties or thirties, milestone birthdays came every decade. Now that we are older, they seem to come every five years. Maybe it is to remind us that time now really is getting short. But, on the flip side of that fact is that we have been through a lot, but good and painful over all these years, and we now feel confident that we can handle just about anything life throws at us. So, facing the future we can say, “Bring it on, let’s see what other surprises are in store”.
Yes! Nearing 80 feels like getting more authentic than old. Go for it!