"Could Be Worse...They Could Say "Wow, You're 720 Months Old..."

Got another birthday coming up in a month, give or take.

No milestone in particular unless, of course, getting through twelve more months in the Kafka meets Monty Python skit without end we call this mortal life should be considered a milestone.

The next milestone is about twenty-four months away.

Actually, twenty-five, give or take.

Sixty. Sixty-reeno. The big six zero.

And like many who have gone before me and, trust me, many of you who are coming up along behind me, I have confirmed something for myself that I always suspected.

There is no intelligent answer to the question, “how does it feel to be sixty?”

Because, my fellow travelers, age has no feeling.

I don’t feel 57.

Probably because there really is no legitimate point of reference.

Feeling, not to put too eggheady a point on it, is really all about comparison.

We know that we feel good, for example, because we sometimes feel bad.

And the opposite of feeling bad is feeling good.

Without feeling like shit once in a while, we would never know that we were feeling good.

And that would be too bad.

So, I don’t know how it feels to be 57 because I never really got a handle on how it felt to be 56 and I have nothing to compare it to.

Ergo, it seems likely that I wont know how it feels to be sixty.

So, don’t ask, okay?

Unless you want to hear an out loud version of that really wordy twisted logic thing you just ploughed through here and risk the overwhelming urge to never ask another question as long as you live.

And that would make me feel really bad.

Now, if you should want to know what I think about being sixty, that’s a whole different tube of Ben-Gay.

To wit:

I think being sixty is better than having the plug pulled at 59.

I think being sixty gives me the right to be, and act, young at heart while reserving the right to ask what the hell is wrong with young people today?

I think being sixty entitles me to a wee spot of commendation for having survived to date in this Kafka meets Monty Python skit I mentioned earlier.

I think being sixty will alleviate any mixed feeling I have about thinking that sixty year old women are hot.

I think being sixty means I should never again be expected to watch The Hallmark Channel, The Romance Channel or Lifetime ever again. Ever.

I think being sixty means that the DMV should just give me a driver for life license because I’ve stood in enough damn lines already.

I think being sixty means that I will continue to have a totally open mind about the music that young folks enjoy but should entitle me to smash the boom box or car stereo with a ballpeen hammer if they play that music too loud.

I think being sixty will make me glad I’m not Ringo…I mean he’s almost, like, seventy, for Christ’s sake.

I think being sixty means I should be able to publicly state my preference for Adam Lambert over Kris Allen without having to explain said preference.

I think being sixty should mean that those thirty year olds who thought I was an old fart when I was forty should be bringing the “please forgive’s” to the table now that they are fifty.

I think being sixty means that sixty should be the new twenty. I’ll concede the right to wear the Speedo, though.

I think being sixty will confound a lot of expectations from people who were convinced that somebody was going to kill me some day for being such a smart ass.

I think being sixty should entitle me to label Joan Rivers for the no talent shrew that she is, something I’ve known, by the way, since I was around thirty-two.

I think being sixty wont slow down my sex drive at all, but that I should be given all due respect and consideration when the hoped for one hundred and twenty minutes turns out to be only ninety…or eleven.

I think being sixty means that Ann Coulter should just shut the hell up. Oh, it has nothing to do with my age, I just feel like I should be able to cash in a chip or two, you know?

I think being sixty means that I still have time to do the rights I should have been doing all along.

I think being sixty means I should probably step up the pace of doing those do right things a little bit.

I think being sixty should give me the right to wear Mentholatum as a cologne if I damn well feel like it.

And…

I think being sixty means the answer to who gets the remote should be a given.


Obviously, I don’t know how much might, or might not, actually happen.

And, yes, I am aware that I’m speculating on something that isn’t set to happen for another two years, give or take.

But I have no idea what kind of shape my memory and/or faculties will be in two years from now.

And I would hate to have people think that I was some doddering old fart when they ask me how it feels to be sixty.

Lord knows how that would feel.