I find myself mentioning that I’m 70 to people at least once a day — some days it’s once per conversation.
I think part of it is just trying to convince myself it’s true. After all, I can’t be 70 already — that means we’re in the far distant year of 2023. And it can’t be 2023, because that’s the year I’m due to turn 70.
I didn’t use to think about my age because I never felt my age, but my feelings have been catching up with the calendar the last couple of years. The difference between 68 and 69 was impressive in terms of the increase in aches and pains, but that was nothing compared with the difference between 69 and 70.
But I’m tired of bellyaching about becoming a septuagenarian before my time, so I’m going to try to stop mentioning big numbers, or at least that particular big number. I’m going to dial down my attitude — didn’t someone say 70 is the new 50? If they didn’t, they should have.
My new goal is to be the oldest middle-aged person in the world, or at least in this county.