My 16th birthday was a red letter day. I remember how excited I was to be old enough to drive. Getting my first draft card when I turned 18 was a big deal too. The traditional milestone, 21, came and went without any special celebration … Donna and I had been married almost two years by that point, and we already had a child. Alcohol? Donna’s six months older than me; she’d been buying us beer and wine for some time. I remember being perversely happy when I turned 30. Never trust anyone over 30, we used to say, so when I hit that mark I finally felt like an adult.
Turning 40, 50, 60, even 65? Just numbers; they didn’t mean all that much to me. But this post is about my wife (no, really it’s about me). Donna felt bad for a while when she turned 40. Other than that, though, she never went into the doldrums over her age. I mean, what the hell are you going to do about it anyway?
But today Donna turned 68. Which means I’ll be turning 68 soon. Which means we’re almost in our 70s. I don’t think Donna’s too concerned about it, but it hit me this morning, when I kissed her and wished her a happy birthday, that we’re officially getting old. I guess I’m feeling today the way Donna says she felt when she turned 40. And I don’t like it.
I almost shared this on Facebook. Instead, I just mentioned that it’s Donna’s birthday. I feared typing the actual number would creep out our friends, most of whom are younger than we are. A lot of people read what I post on Facebook. Hardly anyone reads this blog, so I’ll share my gloomy thoughts here. Winter is coming.
The bright side? Apart from the aches and pains that come with getting older, we’re both healthy and happy. Long may it stay that way! What’s that they say about 70 these days? Oh, right … 70 is the new 50!
Well, I say bullshit. 70 is 70. But we’re not there yet.