In a few weeks I’ll be 57 years old. In my head, I’ve been thinking of myself as nearly 60 for the past year. Hitting 57 is just another meaningless birthday as far as I’m concerned. I’m in the best place I’ve been since my wife died in 2018.
I like being old.
I’ve been fortunate to be able to retire early. Although I never made the money I once dreamt of making or reached the career accomplishments I had hoped for, I did OK for a kid who grew up poor and never graduated from college. I don’t have a lot, but it’s enough for me.
I’ve had good health. I have maintained a high level of fitness for most of my life and am in great shape today. I own a nice home in a good neighborhood and a reliable car. I have a few good longtime friends and many more acquaintances whom I see all the time.
I don’t look anything like I imagined I would when I was younger. I’m leaner and more muscular. I have much less hair. I look in the mirror and see my grandfather’s face instead of the long-haired, bearded Jesus-look-a-like hippie I resembled as a teenager.
I know who I am. I know what’s important to me and what’s not. I have some regrets, but none that tug at my conscious or that need to be rectified.
I take care of my sh!t and am proud of living this way.
Getting old is fine with me. I have found peace and contentment.
Good thing – since the alternative would be dead.