No one told me that when I reached 64 I would be thinking, “Well, I’m in my 65th year.” But, I am.
Big deal, right? I mean, what’s 65? Sure, it used to be the magic number for Social Security, that light at the end of the tunnel for folks longing for the end of a workaday life. But, hell, that’s now 66, and in another three years it will be 67. And, for many, working past that is a necessity to survive. These days, you better not be counting on living on just Social Security. Hopefully you have an IRA, 401(k), etc. – one that has survived the meltdowns of the stock market. And pensions? Those are just as susceptible.
As for 65, I have to go back to my paternal great-grandfather to find a male ancestor who made it to 65. I’ll give credit to my maternal grandfather for making it to 76, but for his father, it was just 49.
Fortunately, it occurred to me to sing “When I’m Sixty-four” to someone just before I reached 64, so I have a lock on the “Will you still need me? Will you still feed me?” aspect of that in my waning years.
I know that decades cause panic in some people… 30, 40, 50, 60, etc., but those birthdays never bothered me. I think it was my on 54th birthday that it dawned on me, “Hey! I’m 50!” I know, plus a few years, but you have to stay young in your mind.
So, yeah. I’m in my 65th year, and the fact that I have far fewer years ahead of me than behind me does come to mind now and then, but I’m not ready to start counting down, just yet.
Image source: RoseBakes.com