A card arrived in the mail recently. It was from my local federal MP, Mark Dreyfus, wishing me a happy 70th birthday.
Until that moment, I hadn’t felt 70, but when I read his handwritten congratulations, I felt 100, because centenarians receive cards from the king.
And that’s fair enough – 100 is a memorable milestone, but I’m only 70 and here I am getting a card from an elected member of parliament. So much for trying to play down the occasion; so much for telling myself that 70 is nothing – just a small stepping stone on my way to something bigger.
I didn’t feel like celebrating my 70th any more than I tried not celebrating my 60th.
Why my 50th was a milestone
My 50th, on the other hand, was a milestone because it meant I was halfway to turning 100 and, as I might never reach 100, it seemed like a good time to stop, reflect and have a party while my liver was still capable of handling a big night on the booze.
Now, I don’t want you to get the impression that I’ve tried to hide the occasion of my 70th. Far from it. I had a wonderful two days away with my four kids, their partners and my six grandchildren, and I was happy to tell anyone that I was about to turn 70.
But I declined my wife’s offer of a bigger event because, well, I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. It’s just 70. And then I get a card from Mark Dreyfus, the attorney-general of Australia no less!
Presumably that means my name’s on a list at Buckingham Palace, ready for the big 100. Does that mean that, if I cark it between now and then, somebody will pick up a ruler and draw a straight line though my name? Dismissed, short of the ton, never having made a century in cricket or in life.
How old do I feel?
I remember my mother telling me on the occasion of her 80th that she didn’t feel 80 and that she felt about 50. I wonder now if every 80-year-old feels the same way. Certainly I don’t feel 70.
I feel 50 too. In fact, until recently, I still saw my best golf as being ahead of me. Now I’ve come to accept that that’s unlikely.
I’ve accepted other things, too. For example, my wife gave me a $350 voucher to go on a fishing charter off Portland to catch a tuna.
That had been a bucket list item for me for several years, as had catching a barramundi, which I did a year or so ago.
When I watched several videos of people catching tuna, I came to realise it might be beyond me. Every tuna fisherman in those videos was 30 or 40 years old, all were fit, all were physically ready for a three or four-hour struggle to get that mighty fish into their boat.
My back would be screaming for assistance way sooner than that and my arms are barely strong enough to land a river trout, far less an 80 kilogram tuna.
My happy place
Other things I’ve come to realise and accept are that I won’t be going on any more runs, that my squash days are over, that nobody’s going to ask to see my Seniors Card, that I can’t get off low couches with any elegance, that conversations with friends about our health issues are now par for the course, that pulling on my own socks can no longer be assumed, that I will never own a Porsche because I couldn’t get into one, and that my lounge chair is my ‘happy place’.
Nevertheless, I occasionally surprise myself. I walked nine kilometres the other day and passed two pubs without taking a pitstop.
I played three rounds of golf last week. Not well, but I walked all 54 holes pulling a buggy.
I made an appointment with my doctor to get another prescription for Viagra.
And I haven’t had a single afternoon nap in 11 days.
Physically, I’m not too bad – touch wood – and mentally I accept where I’m at, provided I don’t think too much about it, which I was doing quite well until Mr Dreyfus’s card.
Do you celebrate milestone birthdays? How much younger (or older) do you feel compared with your age? Share your thoughts in the comments section below.
Also read: Talking to strangers can make you happier
