2.12.2015

SEVENTY

I grew up in an era when 70 was not the new 60.
70 simply meant you were damned old.
And feeble.
And forgetful.
And just the slightest bit irritating.

But not everyone reaches 70.
I know several classmates who didn't.
I'm one of the lucky ones.
I will, in all probability, awaken to see the sun rise tomorrow.
I hope I pay attention.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     .                                                                                                                        

2.09.2015

SOMEDAY

If, reasonably speaking, you had a good decade or two ahead of you before the lights went out, how would you live?  I set myself up for that question in a moment of deep thought somewhere on I-40 between Gallup and Flagstaff.  I worded it differently because I was feeling poetic at the time and it came out:  "I choose to live my life based on the expectation that I have ten good years left. And, I choose to live each day as if it were my last."   OK.  Now what?  Damned if I know.  I've been trying to figure it out ever since it popped into my brain.  Introspection may not be all it's cracked up to be.

It's got to be the aging thing.  When you hit a milestone such as 70, your life does change.  There's no kidding about it...you will not have the opportunity you always counted on to start over as a budding journalist in 1965 New York City.  You will not have the opportunity to enroll in 1962 Kansas State University, study harder and major in something business-like.  Nor will you throw caution to the wind, transfer to Kansas University, take up a literary lifestyle and spend your weekends in dark and smoky watering holes in Kansas City.  Those days are gone, done, disappeared, dead.  You've had your chance, you chose what you chose and, now, here you are.  Or, as I dare to exhibit ownership--here I am.

I'm among the millions in my generation who spent a lot of years putting everything off until Someday.  There is a definite complication, however, in waiting for Someday until you are seventy. When you're ready, Someday may have gotten tired and wandered off with the sixty year-old chick down the block who just started her own jewelry business.  Or, Someday might have flown to Costa Rica with Judy for two weeks of zip-lining and bird watching.  There's no way around it:  Someday won't wait forever, no matter how much we expect it to.  Someday has a shelf life, and at seventy, it's bumping right up against its "Use By" date.  Someday, it seems, is perishable.

Actually, Someday is a common dilemma for all of us.  It's the rare bird who isn't hanging onto Someday for some unfulfilled hope, dream or expectation.  I shouldn't feel badly or sorry for myself or consider myself unique.  So, let's consider this exercise my little push for you to remember the Someday you're carrying around in your purse or pocket, and pull it out for some serious conversation.  Some really serious conversation because, as Karen Lamb has said:  "A year from now you may wish you had started today."  Let's get cracking!