Yesterday I celebrated my sixtieth revolution around the sun. Celebrated might be an erroneous word choice. Endured is more accurate. I was trying to ignore that milestone until my husband posted the following three pictures on Facebook announcing, “Here is Alan at 20, 40, and 60.” Thanks, Herman. Because of you, there was no way to ignore the hundreds of birthday wishes flooding my inbox.
Is sixty a milestone? I’m in reasonably good health. For the last ten years the only trips to the doctor have been for travel shots. I regularly play tennis, ride my bike, hike in the nearby mountains, and walk five to ten miles each week. I honestly don’t feel any older or wiser than I did at fifty-five. I don’t feel any different than I did at fifty, although I look older. The only way I measure the passing of time is the ever-increasing body of work I produce.
I don’t mind getting older. I’m enjoying my life more now than at any time that came before. I’ve learned the secret to staying happy (I’ll save that for another post) and I stay focused on that. So with a heart filled with gratitude for making it this far, I trudge on toward the next milestone, hoping I can keep pace with time, which seems to march faster each passing year.